Gospel Story Finder

My understanding grew rapidly, but soon my father intervened. He didn’t like the idea of me investigating a “new” church. My parents were separated, and no one knew where my mother was, but I felt obligated to honor my father’s wishes, at least until I was no longer a minor. My contact with the Saints as a group dropped off somewhat, but I knew in my heart that someday I would be baptized.
My oldest cousin went into the army, and then he left on a mission. During the two years he was gone, I kept thinking about the feelings I had felt. I always had a testimony of Joseph Smith, right from the start. His story seemed so logical, and the confirmation of the Spirit came so quickly that I couldn’t ignore it. When my cousin returned from his mission, I met him in Montélimar, and we rode together back to Antibes (near Nice), which is my hometown. All the way there we talked about the Church, and I accepted many new ideas.
The Lord also had something else in mind to help me. I was in agricultural school in Lyons at the time, and when I returned to my studies, I arranged to do some field study for three months in Aix-en-Provence. There, with my cousin, I heard all of the missionary discussions thoroughly, and the small testimony inside me became a big one. I was baptized on July 26, 1975, and I still feel as strongly today as I did then that Joseph Smith was and is a prophet of God.
I am thankful that I was able to see the gospel in action in my aunt’s home. Their example combined with the witness of the Spirit to let me know that the Lord has built a program for families that I want to follow.

I was five years old when our grandmother died back in 1892. We children stayed upstairs while all the neighbors gathered in the parlor below for the funeral.
“My little sister and I pressed our noses against the windowpane, and we saw horses and carriages and wagons up and down the whole lane.
“Then we saw the two black velvet horses come, pulling the shiny black hearse toward the house. The horses had gold fringes on their necks, and the high-wheeled hearse had windows on the sides with gold drapes and gold fringes.
“The horses walked slowly, and they looked sad. I was sad too because we loved our grandmother and I didn’t understand, but I did know she would not be in our house anymore.
“My mama cried, and her sister, Aunt Emily, came, and she held her little baby and cried. I felt sorry for them, but I didn’t cry.
“Mama told me grandmother was old and needed to rest, so I didn’t cry.
“It was two weeks afterward that I did cry. Just a few days after the funeral, Aunt Emily’s little baby took pneumonia. Maybe because she had been moved from her own house over in Emporia. We tiptoed around the house, my little sister Becca and I. We tiptoed, and we didn’t ask for anything. But the little baby died.
“We were back upstairs, and the carriages were again up and down the lane. This time a little white hearse came, drawn by two little white ponies.
“Now,” continued our grandmother, as the tape circled around her words. “Now we have sealed them all in the temple of the Lord, and they are together again. They didn’t know while they were on this earth that they could be together. Missionaries never came to our countryside homes.”

As a child growing up in North Carolina, I developed a strong interest in religion at a very young age. I remember asking my mom, “Who made God?”
And she would say, as is a common evangelistic answer, “God made himself.” I couldn’t comprehend that.
I then remember asking other questions like, “Are Jesus and God the same person? How can they be the same person, Mama?”
And she would just say, “But, honey, they are.” I couldn’t understand that either. It just did not make sense, because I thought that God and Jesus just had to be two different people. This concept was not taught me; it was innate.
My other big question was, “Mama, if God loves us as much today as he did the people in the Bible, how come we don’t have a Moses today?”
“Honey, that just isn’t done anymore,” was always the answer. But it never satisfied me.
At age ten, I started going to a different church every Sunday. It was hard because I was shy. It was like when you go shopping, and you don’t know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know it when you find it. That’s what searching for the gospel was to me. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I didn’t have it and would know it when I found it.
Every Sunday, Mom would take me to a different church. She’d drop me off and then come back and get me. I usually sat on the back row. I went to each church only once except one. I was really impressed with that church because the people were very friendly, so I went twice. I did this for about a year and finally came to the conclusion that there was no true church.
At 11, I started studying the scriptures. As I would sit down and study the scriptures, I came upon the command that you must be baptized. Even though my family would go to revivals or to church on Easter Sunday, I knew I had never been baptized and I felt I needed to be.
I felt that when you were baptized, you were obliged to attend church with that specific congregation on Sixth Street or wherever. I had already visited all the churches in town, and there wasn’t one I wanted to belong to.
My father died when I was young, so there were just my mother, my brother, and my granddaddy. We would go to revivals during the summer as they traveled through our town. Most of the preachers were very forceful and domineering, and I was often frightened, until one preacher came who was kind of funny and rather entertaining.
I thought, “Well, if I have to be baptized to go to heaven, who would be better than this guy, because it’s a traveling revival and I won’t have to attend any church.” I had gone up and talked to the preacher, and he said he would baptize me on Saturday night.
It was the Friday night before at 9:25 P.M. I remember the exact time because I looked at the clock. It is still vivid in my mind. At 9:25 it was storming with a humdinger of an electrical storm like we get in North Carolina. It was lightning and thundering and raining. The trees were bent over, and it was dark. There came a knock on the door.
Mama, being a widow for so many years and very protective of her children, would never let strangers in the house. It was two young men in suits and trenchcoats, and she let them in. I remember it so distinctly, because I thought, “Who are these guys?” I thought Mama knew them.
She is very respectful of other people’s religions, so she made us come in and listen to them. I had never heard of Mormons before. I had never even heard the word. They started teaching us.
When I heard these two missionaries, I knew that what they were telling me was true. I had come to the conclusion that there was no true church and that’s why I was going to be baptized by the revival preacher. But after hearing the missionaries that Friday evening, I knew that they had something I was looking for, so I didn’t get baptized by the revival preacher the next day.
They taught us for a few weeks, and I really believed what they told me. But Mom was brought up in her religion and thought she was sinful thinking any other way. I don’t know if Mama asked them not to come back, or if the missionaries felt like they shouldn’t baptize an 11-year-old girl without her family, but they stopped coming.
I didn’t know where they had gone. I didn’t know where the church met or how to contact the missionaries. They had given me some books, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and The Doctrine and Covenants. I sat down and studied these books carefully.
By then I was in seventh grade. I remember my teacher wanted us to give a presentation on any subject we chose, and I picked Mormonism. I remember studying for it so hard. I then got up and gave my presentation in front of all the students and the faculty, and I wasn’t even a member of the Church. I think I answered every question correctly.
About a year and a half after the first missionaries visited us, another set of missionaries knocked on the door. My family wasn’t home, but they gave me a Book of Mormon. They said they would be back in a couple of days to see what I thought about it. I was baptized the next week and have hardly missed a Sunday since.
I remember that I wasn’t very comfortable at church for a while because I didn’t have my family to go with me. I knew the Church was true, so I gave myself a year to get comfortable and see how I fit. By the time that year was up, I never wanted to leave church. Mama used to say, “Honey, why don’t you come home once in a while.” Every opportunity I had, I was at church. I loved it there.
A sister in the ward came up to me, just before I left on my mission, and asked me, “What kept you coming back to church, every Sunday all by yourself.” I really couldn’t give her a direct answer, but something pushed me toward church every Sunday.
I don’t think it was coincidence that missionaries hocked on my door at 9:25 that night during a storm when missionaries are supposed to be in at 9:30. It was their last house, and with the storm they could have easily rationalized going home five minutes early. Those missionaries never knew that the 11-year-old girl listening in the background joined the Church and became a missionary herself.
That thought made me a better missionary. I would say to myself, “One more door. I was the last door, so one more door.”

Peter Burt was born in 1949 in Napier, New Zealand, and grew up in the nearby city of Gisborne. He was only 14—a student at Lytton High School—when his family suffered a devastating loss: Peter’s father died from a fall while painting their family home.
“Losing my dad at such an early age was absolutely tragic,” he recalls. What made the experience more heartbreaking is that, growing up atheist, he had no concept of an afterlife. Years later, Elder Neal A. Maxwell’s (1926–2004) general conference messages helped Peter understand how profound his grief was at the time. “A resurrection-less view of life produces only proximate hope.”1
With no knowledge of God or His plan, Peter remembers, “My philosophy of life was, eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Thankfully, I now know better—infinitely better!”

One of the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth states: “Through your dress and appearance, you can show the Lord that you know how precious your body is. You can show that you are a disciple of Jesus Christ.” After studying these words, one young woman realized that perhaps some of her clothes were not completely modest. Through prayer and study of the scriptures, she was reminded that she was a disciple of Jesus Christ and that, as His representative, she needed to make some changes. She didn’t want to have anything in her wardrobe that was a temptation, so she went through her closet and drawers and got rid of anything that wasn’t modest. She said, “I would be smart if I didn’t even try on anything in stores that I knew I shouldn’t wear. Why be tempted?” That firm resolve showed the Lord that she respected her body, and she drove down a deep stake for modesty.

As a surgeon, I found that a significant portion of my professional time was taken up with the subject of pain. Of necessity I surgically inflicted it almost daily—and much of my effort was then spent trying to control and alleviate pain.
I have pondered about the purpose of pain. None of us is immune from experiencing pain. I have seen people cope with it very differently. Some turn away from God in anger, and others allow their suffering to bring them closer to God.
Like you, I have experienced pain myself. Pain is a gauge of the healing process. It often teaches us patience. Perhaps that is why we use the term patient in referring to the sick.
Elder Orson F. Whitney wrote: “No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude, and humility. … It is through sorrow and suffering, toil and tribulation, that we gain the education that we come here to acquire.”1
Similarly, Elder Robert D. Hales has said:
“Pain brings you to a humility that allows you to ponder. It is an experience I am grateful to have endured. …
“I learned that the physical pain and the healing of the body after major surgery are remarkably similar to the spiritual pain and the healing of the soul in the process of repentance.”2
Much of our suffering is not necessarily our fault. Unexpected events, contradicting or disappointing circumstances, interrupting illness, and even death surround us and penetrate our mortal experience. Additionally, we may suffer afflictions because of the actions of others.3 Lehi noted that Jacob had “suffered … much sorrow, because of the rudeness of [his] brethren.”4 Opposition is part of Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness. We all encounter enough to bring us to an awareness of our Father’s love and of our need for the Savior’s help.
The Savior is not a silent observer. He Himself knows personally and infinitely the pain we face.
“He suffereth the pains of all men, yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children.”5
“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.”6
Sometimes in the depth of pain, we are tempted to ask, “Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?”7 I testify the answer is yes, there is a physician. The Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all these conditions and purposes of mortality.
There is another kind of pain for which we are responsible. Spiritual pain lies deep within our souls and can feel unquenchable, even as being racked with an “inexpressible horror,” as Alma described.8 It comes from our sinful actions and lack of repentance. For this pain too there is a cure that is universal and absolute. It is from the Father, through the Son, and it is for each of us who is willing to do all that is necessary to repent. Christ said, “Will ye not now return unto me … and be converted, that I may heal you?”9
Christ Himself taught:
“And my Father sent me that I might be lifted up upon the cross; and after that I had been lifted up upon the cross, that I might draw all men unto me. …
“Therefore, according to the power of the Father I will draw all men unto me.”10
Perhaps His most significant work is in the ongoing labor with each of us individually to lift, to bless, to strengthen, to sustain, to guide, and to forgive us.
As Nephi saw in vision, much of Christ’s mortal ministry was devoted to blessing and healing the sick with all kinds of maladies—physical, emotional, and spiritual. “And I beheld multitudes of people who were sick, and who were afflicted with all manner of diseases. … And they were healed by the power of the Lamb of God.”11
Alma also prophesied that “he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and … he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. …
“That his bowels may be filled with mercy, … that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”12
Late one night lying in a hospital bed, this time as a patient and not as a physician, I read those verses over and over again. I pondered: “How is it done? For whom? What is required to qualify? Is it like forgiveness of sin? Do we have to earn His love and help?” As I pondered, I came to understand that during His mortal life Christ chose to experience pains and afflictions in order to understand us. Perhaps we also need to experience the depths of mortality in order to understand Him and our eternal purposes.13
President Henry B. Eyring taught: “It will comfort us when we must wait in distress for the Savior’s promised relief that He knows, from experience, how to heal and help us. … And faith in that power will give us patience as we pray and work and wait for help. He could have known how to succor us simply by revelation, but He chose to learn by His own personal experience.”14
I felt the encircling arms of His love that night.15 Tears watered my pillow in gratitude. Later, as I was reading in Matthew about Christ’s mortal ministry, I made another discovery: “When the even was come, they brought unto him many … and he … healed all that were sick.”16 He healed all that came to Him. None were turned away.

At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.
All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.
Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.

When I was three years old, my family lived in Provo, Utah. A friend of my mom was visiting us and was getting ready to attend a wedding in the Salt Lake Temple. She couldn’t find her car keys. Mom helped her, but they couldn’t find them anywhere, and the friend was going to be late if she didn’t find them soon. I said, “I know what we can do to find them. We can pray to Heavenly Father. If we ask Him, we will find the keys.” Mom said that I was right, so we all knelt by the couch. I said the prayer. We all stood up to search for the keys again. Mom said, “Travis, let me tie your shoe first, so you won’t trip.” Then she exclaimed, “Look behind you!” There were the keys! We said a prayer to thank Heavenly Father for helping us. I know that prayer really works.Travis Tobias, age 5Flagstaff, Arizona

Week after week, my frustration grew. With three small, active children and a busy high-councilor husband who would soon be serving as a mission president, I was finding it harder and harder to stay at a high spiritual level. Church attendance helped, but with my husband often away on assignment, I was left alone on Sunday to quiet one child’s impatient feet, dry another’s tears, or change the baby’s diaper. My spirit desperately craved nourishment.
I knew what I needed to do, but I didn’t know how to make it work. The words I had seen displayed a hundred different times in a hundred different lessons were engraved indelibly on my mind:
Pray Always
Read the Scriptures
Live the Commandments
I was keeping the commandments. I was praying, or thought I was. And I was trying to read the scriptures whenever time permitted. It’s just that time didn’t permit my reading very often. Most of my days were spent in rushing from one household crisis to another, hardly finding time to read the instructions on the laundry detergent box, let alone anything uplifting like the scriptures.
Besides, what did Lehi’s journey to the promised land have to do with my problems? Where was the chapter and verse in the Book of Mormon that tells how to bathe a stubborn two-year-old or get a four-year-old to pick up his toys? I was sure I had more relevant things to worry about than who was going to win the next Nephite-Lamanite war. I had three children fighting with each other all the time.
And so the weeks and months flew by, full of household tasks and Church responsibilities. I met the children’s demands and needs willingly because I knew this was what the Lord wanted from me at this time in my life. But I still couldn’t find time to read the scriptures. There was only so much one person could do, I rationalized defensively. Wasn’t I doing everything expected of me? If so, where were the promised blessings—the joy, the peace of mind? What spiritual growth could one possibly get from sweeping floors and changing diapers? How could I blend the day-to-day chores and responsibilities of child-raising with the celestial peace for which my spirit hungered?
Something had to be done—my spirit was suffering. I was desperate. I discovered that the only quiet time I had was when I locked myself in a room two or three times a day so I could have a private, heart-to-heart talk with Heavenly Father. I really poured my heart out.
Several weeks later, our bishop called me to be the Spiritual Living teacher in Relief Society. This wasn’t the kind of help I had expected, but I took a deep breath and accepted. That call changed my life. The daily study and preparation it took for me to give those lessons taught me two things. First, if the incentive were strong enough—in this case, fear that I wouldn’t be prepared—I found the time to read the scriptures. Second, I learned that when I prayerfully searched the scriptures, I found they contain the answer to every question and dilemma.
One day it occurred to me that if the scriptures can answer all the questions in the Relief Society manual, they ought to be able to answer questions about rearing children. I began reading the Book of Mormon with a purpose. Whenever I discovered an example of parenting, I wrote down the reference with a brief note. When I finished, I organized the examples I’d discovered into principles taught and my applications of each principle.
For example, I was having a hard time getting the children to cooperate. They would fight with each other, ignore my request to help with small jobs until I became insistent or angry, and act up or show off at the most inconvenient times. Alma’s interviews with his sons in Alma 36–42 made me realize how well he knew each one as an individual and how crucial a personal relationship with each child is. My husband, Douglas, and I began holding interviews periodically with each child and doing things alone with each one. It helped to set aside special days or times with each child and make bedtime less hectic and more personal. We found that by treating our children as individuals, they felt less need to seek our attention in negative ways. As they became more sure of themselves and their place in the family, they became more cooperative.
Another example of good parenting is found in 2 Nephi 28:30 [2 Ne. 28:30], where the Lord explains that he teaches us only that which we are ready to accept and understand. We are taught step-by-step as our faith and obedience increases. When we applied this principle to our children, we discovered that we needed to know what each child was capable of understanding, doing, and feeling at different ages. Then we would not ask them to do more than the child was capable of handling.
As I began making scripture study a part of my daily routine, I also began to examine how I kept the commandments. By changing my attitude, I was able to view homemaking and parenthood not as duties but as opportunities to become more like my own heavenly parents.
It isn’t always easy to keep this perspective when the children are quarreling and the pile of dirty clothes is as high as the pile of dirty dishes. But these occasional setbacks are easier to handle if my spirit isn’t suffering from a lack of nourishment. Now when I give a Relief Society lesson, I can share my testimony, with conviction, that there isn’t a question or problem we encounter that we can’t answer by searching the scriptures.
The following represents my favorite Book of Mormon child-raising scriptures. Others may find additional verses that apply.
Principle
Reference
Application
1. Father (or mother, if there is no father in the home) is to be the spiritual leader in the family and is responsible for teaching the children.
1 Ne. 1:1
1 Ne. 15:30
1 Ne. 16:23–27
The father presides at family home evening, bears testimony to the family, studies the scriptures daily with them, is an example, conducts daily family prayer, presides at family councils, and honors his priesthood.
2. Parental responsibility for both parents begins when the child is an infant; the role is eternal.
2 Ne. 4:5–6
Alma 56:47–48Mosiah 27
A close, consistent relationship is necessary to develop a child’s trust in the parent. Parents must never give up on a child, but continue to pray for, love, and bless him or her.
3. A one-on-one relationship is crucial.
Alma 36–42
Hold personal interviews periodically. Do things one-on-one so that each child has special moments with his or her parents.
4. Know each child as an individual.
3 Ne. 26:9
Find out what children at various developmental stages are capable of physically, mentally, and emotionally. Don’t expect too much too soon. Children must learn to trust a parent before they can trust themselves.
5. Parents must be humble, teachable, and willing to admit mistakes and repent.
Alma 36
Admit parental errors, misplaced blame, and harshness. Ask for forgiveness.
6. A child learns best when taught by example.
3 Ne. 27:21, 27
Alma 25:17
Demonstrate your values about the Sabbath day, wholesome books and movies, education, self-control, honesty, respect for authority, etc. Verbalize your beliefs and discuss them with your children.
7. A child learns best through praise, positive reinforcement, and expressions of parental faith and trust.
3 Ne. 27–30
Hel. 10:5
Enos 1:1–8
Trust your children to do well, and praise them when they do well. If they fail, let them know you are disappointed but that you still love them and are willing to let them try again.
8. Correct children when necessary, then show an abundance of love for them.
Hel. 15:3
Ether 2:14
Make sure your children know you love them, in spite of their mistakes. Teach them about their potential as children of God.
9. Set the rule and allow the natural consequences to follow.
1 Ne. 8:37–38
Alma 303 Ne. 27:16–20
Ether 3:19, 26
Set a rule together, discuss the consequences, then let your children use their agency to govern behavior. Resist saying “I told you so” or sparing the children the consequences altogether.
10. Teach children to use their agency.
Alma 24:12–18Hel. 14:30–31
Allow children to make small decisions in early childhood to develop confidence and wisdom. As they grow older, they can make more important decisions.
11. Listen, listen, listen! Don’t be quick to advise or condemn.
Alma 20 (negative example of fathering)
Things are not always what they appear to be. Give children the benefit of the doubt and don’t assume the worst. Children often need someone to listen while they talk through their problems. Don’t be quick to give help; rather, help them determine a solution.
12. Discipline is necessary. It should be tailored or made to the needs of each child.
Mosiah 26:25–36Alma 30:43–53Mosiah 4:14–15
Methods of discipline are made for each child: Separate an offender from others by placing the child in a specific area or room; have the child remain at home, away from negative influences, where mother or father can give support in making decisions; have the child work alongside a brother or sister with whom he or she has been fighting; to help solve disagreements, let them act out their roles to see the other’s point of view.
13. Teach children to love work and to serve others.
Mosiah 4:15–16Mosiah 6:6–7
Children need to serve one another and the family to feel worthwhile.

As soon as she got up, Katya ran to the window to survey the sky. “Papa! Papa!” she called. “The day is clear and lovely.”
As Katya dressed, she hummed in anticipation. There would be no lessons this morning, and, best of all, she’d have her papa to herself for the whole day.
Katya’s father, an ornithologist, was one of the best-known scientists in the Soviet Union, and the two of them were taking a boat on the Volga River to count waterfowl. It was a great treat for Katya. She had looked forward to it for weeks.
Since just before her fifth birthday, Katya had lived with her parents in the wild-life preserve. She knew that she was fortunate to live in such a beautiful region. Lately, however, for some reason she didn’t really understand, she felt as if something were missing.
As her father led the way to the boat dock, Katya told him about her latest letter from her pen pal, Larissa. She remembered the letter exactly: “Dear Katya, I am taking time from my studies to write you a description of First Day. The newspapers, radio, and television made a great fuss about the start of the new school year. And as you can imagine, Masha and I helped each other get our clothing ready for the big day. On First Day morning, all school children, along with parents and younger brothers and sisters, walked to school. The school doors weren’t opened until the important people of the town had given their speeches about the wonders and joys of education. Everyone cheered, and finally we gave our teachers flowers to celebrate the new year. I wondered how you passed First Day in the preserve. Please write all the details. Both Masha and I will read your letter eagerly!”
Papa listened to Katya’s account of the letter. Then he asked, “Would you like to leave the preserve and live in town where you could go to school with other children?”
“No,” answered Katya. “I’m just very interested in Larissa’s and Masha’s adventures.”
But Katya was troubled. When she answered Larissa’s letter, what could she say that would interest a girl who led such an exciting life? How could she expect anyone who’d never even seen this place to understand how much she loved her quiet, uneventful life here?
The truth was that Katya never wanted to leave this place. She intended to do just what her father did here—the very same work. But still, she was troubled. She felt like the country mouse in the story that she’d read to her brothers, and the life of a country mouse was not very exciting.
Katya loaded the lunch basket, a blanket, her binoculars, and Papa’s bag into the shallow metal motorboat. Because the boat was neither deep nor heavy, it could skim quickly across the water. It was also easy to row. The noise of a motor could frighten the birds away, so Papa would use the oars when they approached the flocks.
With the motor roaring, Katya and her father sped along the surface of the cold lake. After a while, they entered a region where beautiful lotuses bloomed.
They’re as big as dinner plates! Katya thought. I wonder if Larissa has ever seen such flowers.
Papa shut off the motor. “Time to start rowing, I’m afraid.”
Katya took her binoculars from the case and started to watch the sky for ospreys.
Soon Papa slowed his rowing. They were at the entrance to the part of the lake where he thought he might sight swans swimming, and he didn’t want to startle them.
Just then Katya caught sight of an osprey! As she watched through her binoculars, the bird sighted a fish from high in the air, dove immediately after it, and surfaced with the fish in its beak. I wonder if Larissa has ever seen anything like that, Katya thought. It would be wonderful if everyone on earth could visit the preserve and observe the wonders here. And it would be even better if Papa could teach them all about everything here.
Katya stood up in the boat and attempted to focus her binoculars on a second osprey. Without warning, the boat rocked under her feet. A second later, Katya was underwater. The water was cold and deep. When she felt herself rising at last, she reached for the surface and the side of the boat. Then she felt a firm hand on her arm, and her father hauled her into the boat. He wrapped her in the blanket and held her tight. “I thought you were interested in the study of birds, but instead, I find that what you really want to learn about is fish!” he teased.
Later, while busily counting birds with her father, Katya wondered if Larissa’s going to school with her family on First Day could be any happier than what she and Papa were doing. And as the boat took them home at sunset, Katya was no longer troubled about being a country mouse. She and Larissa inhabited different worlds, but through their letters, they could share each other’s lives. The experiences that she had might not be as exciting as those of her city friend, but they were just as interesting.

I think one of the sweetest lessons taught by the Prophet Joseph, and yet one of the saddest, occurred close to the time of his death. He had seen in vision the Saints leaving Nauvoo and going to the Rocky Mountains. He was anxious that his people be led away from their tormentors and into this promised land which the Lord had shown him. He no doubt longed to be with them. However, he had been issued an arrest warrant on trumped up charges. Despite many appeals to Governor Ford, the charges were not dismissed. Joseph left his home, his wife, his family, and his people and gave himself up to the civil authorities, knowing he would probably never return.

These are the words he spoke as he journeyed to Carthage: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men.”

In Carthage Jail he was incarcerated with his brother Hyrum and others. On June 27, 1844, Joseph, Hyrum, John Taylor, and Willard Richards were together there when an angry mob stormed the jail, ran up the stairway, and began firing through the door of the room they occupied. Hyrum was killed, and John Taylor was wounded. Joseph Smith’s last great act here upon the earth was one of selflessness. He crossed the room, most likely “thinking that it would save the lives of his brethren in the room if he could get out, … and sprang into the window when two balls pierced him from the door, and one entered his right breast from without.” He gave his life; Willard Richards and John Taylor were spared. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.

After graduation I headed off to Brigham Young University. While there, I kept pondering a part of my patriarchal blessing that mentions sharing the gospel. In the past, I’d always thought, “There’s no way I can ever serve a full-time mission. It’s too risky with CF!” In addition to the health risks, I was afraid my daily treatment routine wouldn’t fit with a typical missionary schedule.
Still, the thought wouldn’t go away. Could I actually serve a mission?
As I pondered and prayed, I kept thinking about my favorite scripture. In Mosiah 2:20–21, King Benjamin taught how the Lord had “kept and preserved” His people, “lending [them] breath” each day. These scriptures helped me see how the Lord had “kept and preserved” me.
Though I was still a bit scared, I knew it was God’s will for me to serve. I received a doctor’s clearance, submitted my papers, and was called to serve a mission. I believed the scripture that teaches that God is “supporting [me] from one moment to another” (Mosiah 2:21). As I served my mission in Boston, Massachusetts, that promise was definitely fulfilled.
My mission days were a treasure. One of the greatest blessings was developing a deeper relationship with Heavenly Father and with Jesus Christ. Part of that closeness meant achieving a better understanding of Their will concerning me, including the importance of safeguarding my health.
As a missionary, you’re focused on serving others. Yet I knew that to stay on my mission, I had to remain healthy. I decided to never miss a lung treatment. I would exercise every morning. And I would maintain good eating habits.
As a result, I was better able to be His instrument and serve others. It was a valuable lesson to know I can still serve, even with my illness. I’ve learned that what you can do, despite any limitations you have, is much better to focus on than what you can’t do.

Everyone’s done it. You go for a Church interview and find yourself waiting with time on your hands. The Mia Maids of the American Fork 15th Ward, American Fork North Stake, decided to put something else in their hands while they’re waiting. They tie quilts.

Every month they have a personal progress interview with their adviser, and before and after their interviews, they tie lightweight quilts on a frame set up in the adviser’s living room. Ward members donate the materials. The quilts are then finished and donated to the residents of a local rest home. Actually, delivering the quilts is the best part, according to the girls. The residents are very appreciative—so much so, in fact, that the girls have decided to continue the project indefinitely.

I am embarrassed to think of the times I hesitated to spend extra time and effort with the seventeen teachers of the Provo Thirteenth Ward while I was their advisor. It is true. I had a growing family, a new job and home, and other responsibilities, but I needed to be reminded of my obligation to these young men. As I came to know and love them, their challenges and problems became my own. Gradually I found myself serving not out of a sense of responsibility but in a spirit of love and concern.

Concerned for the youth of his ward, a good bishop in Bountiful challenged his young people to taste the sweetness of beautiful service. Reluctantly at first, they put aside their entertainment. One project was making quilts for the mentally retarded at the American Fork Training School. Upon completion of their quilts, the girls delivered them. They arrived at the school in time to help feed supper to the “children.” And that was an experience. As they left the school, with mashed potatoes, gravy, and assorted vegetables in their hair and on their outfits, one girl, touched by the sweetness of the “child” she had fed, said, “I’ll never forget Billy.”

Most of all, I think eternal marriage cannot be achieved without a commitment to make it work. Most of what I know about this I have learned from my companion. We have been married for almost 47 years now. From the beginning she knew what kind of marriage she wanted.
We started as poor college students, but her vision for our marriage was exemplified by a set of silverware. As is common today, when we married she registered with a local department store. Instead of listing all the pots and pans and appliances we needed and hoped to receive, she chose another course. She asked for silverware. She chose a pattern and the number of place settings and listed knives, forks, and spoons on the wedding registry and nothing else. No towels, no toasters, no television—just knives, forks, and spoons.
The wedding came and went. Our friends and our parents’ friends gave gifts. We departed for a brief honeymoon and decided to open the presents when we returned. When we did so, we were shocked. There was not a single knife or fork in the lot. We joked about it and went on with our lives.
Two children came along while we were in law school. We had no money to spare. But when my wife worked as a part-time election judge or when someone gave her a few dollars for her birthday, she would quietly set it aside, and when she had enough she would go to town to buy a fork or a spoon. It took us several years to accumulate enough pieces to use them. When we finally had service for four, we began to invite some of our friends for dinner.
Before they came, we would have a little discussion in the kitchen. Which utensils would we use, the battered and mismatched stainless or the special silverware? In those early days I would often vote for the stainless. It was easier. You could just throw it in the dishwasher after the meal, and it took care of itself. The silver, on the other hand, was a lot of work. My wife had it hidden away under the bed where it could not be found easily by a burglar. She had insisted that I buy a tarnish-free cloth to wrap it in. Each piece was in a separate pocket, and it was no easy task to assemble all the pieces. When the silver was used, it had to be hand washed and dried so that it would not spot, and put back in the pockets so it would not tarnish, and wrapped up and carefully hidden again so it would not get stolen. If any tarnish was discovered, I was sent to buy silver polish, and together we carefully rubbed the stains away.
Over the years we added to the set, and I watched with amazement how she cared for the silver. My wife was never one to get angry easily. However, I remember the day when one of our children somehow got hold of one of the silver forks and wanted to use it to dig up the backyard. That attempt was met with a fiery glare and a warning not to even think about it. Ever!
I noticed that the silverware never went to the many ward dinners she cooked, or never accompanied the many meals she made and sent to others who were sick or needy. It never went on picnics and never went camping. In fact it never went anywhere; and, as time went by, it didn’t even come to the table very often. Some of our friends were weighed in the balance, found wanting, and didn’t even know it. They got the stainless when they came to dinner.
The time came when we were called to go on a mission. I arrived home one day and was told that I had to rent a safe-deposit box for the silver. She didn’t want to take it with us. She didn’t want to leave it behind. And she didn’t want to lose it.
For years I thought she was just a little bit eccentric, and then one day I realized that she had known for a long time something that I was just beginning to understand. If you want something to last forever, you treat it differently. You shield it and protect it. You never abuse it. You don’t expose it to the elements. You don’t make it common or ordinary. If it ever becomes tarnished, you lovingly polish it until it gleams like new. It becomes special because you have made it so, and it grows more beautiful and precious as time goes by.

I vividly remember a conversation I had with my roommates during my freshman year at BYU. One night at dinner we were discussing what we would give our mothers for Christmas. I had been raised in a very middle-class family, but I attended high school with wealthy, upper-class Jewish students. I had no other point of reference, so by the standards of my peers, my family was pretty poor. As I discussed gift suggestions with my college roommates, I mentioned that I was contemplating giving my mother a telephone for Christmas. She seemed to already have everything else she needed. One of my roommates said, “I’m going to buy my mother a store-bought blouse. I don’t remember her ever owning a piece of new, store-bought clothing.” Wow, was I humbled in a hurry! My naive eyes had awakened to the real world.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, who had joined the Church in their native Scotland, left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland, and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area, leaving death and heartache in its wake. The Miller family was hard hit. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The first, on June 22, 1849, was 18-year-old William. Five days later Mary McGowan Miller, my great-great-grandmother and the mother of the family, died. Two days afterward, 15-year-old Archibald passed away, and five days after his death, my great-great-grandfather, Charles Stewart Miller, father of the family, succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
Because of so many deaths in the area, there were no caskets available, at any price, in which to bury the deceased family members. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make caskets for the family members who had passed away.
Little is recorded of the heartache and struggles of the nine remaining Miller children as they continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. We know that they left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
Others of my ancestors faced similar hardships. Through it all, however, their testimonies remained steadfast and firm. From all of them I received a legacy of total dedication to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because of these faithful souls, I stand before you today.

Beth skipped to her room to pick up her toys. A new family from church was coming over for dinner, and they had a girl her age. Mama said her name was Cara. Beth couldn’t wait to meet her!
When the doorbell rang, Beth ran to the front door. “Hi! I’m Beth.”
“We’re the Palmers, and this is our daughter, Cara,” said the dad.
Right away, Beth could tell there was something different about Cara. Cara didn’t look right at Beth when she talked. When everyone walked to the table to eat, Cara’s dad held her arm. And before they started eating, Cara’s mom told her where each food was on her plate. Could Cara not see?
“I’m blind,” Cara said. “So Mom helps me know what I’m about to eat.”
Beth remembered a story from the Bible about a blind man that Jesus healed. But she had never met someone who was blind before.
After dinner, Mama said, “Beth, why don’t you and Cara play in your room?”
Beth looked at Mom with wide eyes. She wasn’t sure what to do.
Cara smiled and held out her hand. “Lead the way!” she said.
Seeing Cara smile made Beth feel better. She took Cara’s hand and led her down the hall to her room. Then Beth let go of Cara’s hand to get some toys for them to play with.
Cara stood in the doorway. “If you tell me where there’s a bed or a chair, I can sit down,” she said.
“Oh!” Beth turned around. “Sorry about that!”
“It’s OK,” Cara said. “Where should I go?”
Beth tried to think of a way to explain where the chair was.
“Is it to my right or to my left?” Cara asked.
“To your right,” Beth said, starting to understand. “Take two steps.”
Cara took two steps to her right. She put her hand out, felt the chair, and sat down perfectly. “Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s play!”
“How can you play with toys if you don’t know what they look like?” Beth asked shyly.
“I feel them,” Cara said. “Here—hand me something, but don’t tell me what it is.”
Beth handed Cara a toy and watched as she felt it all over. Cara grinned. “It’s a sock monkey.”
Beth laughed. “That’s right! Mama and I made it together.”
“Someday I’m going to learn to sew too,” Cara said.
“Really?”
“Yeah! I’ll be able to feel all the stitches. Maybe I can learn to make a sock monkey like yours.” Cara hugged the sock monkey close.
“You can keep that one, if you want,” Beth said.
“But you and your mom made it together,” said Cara. “Don’t you want to keep it?”That made Beth giggle because there was a whole
pile of sock monkeys on her bed! “I have plenty!” She began to plop them on Cara’s lap one at a time. “We made this one, and this one, and this one, and all of these.” Cara and Beth laughed.
“So really, you can pick one to take home!” Beth said.
“Thanks!” As Beth watched Cara feel each monkey and pick one to keep, she realized she had made a new friend.
“I’m glad I met you tonight,” Beth said.
“Me too,” said Cara. “Someday, I’ll make a sock monkey to give to you!”

Growing up in the Church, Sundays tended to feel tedious and monotonous. It was rare for me as a kid to actually listen to what was being said. Maybe that’s why it’s so interesting to me that to this day I remember a single line from a talk I heard when I was Primary age.
At the time I was sitting in sacrament meeting, wondering why I had to be at church every single week. Then the speaker said, “Sunday shouldn’t get in the way of our lives, Sunday should be the center of our lives.” At the time that idea was so different from what I’d always thought that I wasn’t really able to understand what it meant. Even so, I could tell it was important.
In Primary we learned that we came to church to take the sacrament. I figured these two things were related, but I could never figure out how. I didn’t think too much about the sacrament. It was just something I did, and it didn’t have any meaning to me. Throughout the years, though, those two ideas stayed with me. I knew I was missing something.
Years later, in junior high, I found myself in a hard situation. I had a bad habit I was trying to get rid of. I knew it wasn’t so serious that I had to talk to my bishop, but it was still really bothering me.
I was embarrassed and didn’t want to ask anyone for help. Not even my parents. Not even Heavenly Father. I determined I could overcome this challenge on my own.
Weeks went by. I tried so hard to be better but without result. I was still struggling. I knew the Sabbath should be the focus of my week because of the sacrament. I had also been taught that the sacrament was a tool I could use to access the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
After trying and failing for so long, I finally decided to turn to the Lord. At last I set aside my pride, opened my heart, and prayed to Heavenly Father. I asked for help, strength, and forgiveness. I stopped waiting for change to happen to me and started focusing on taking small steps toward improvement, with faith that the Lord would bless my efforts.
For the first time I focused on preparing for the sacrament all through the week. The sacrament became something I looked forward to. I began to see it as an opportunity rather than a routine because it brought the power of the Savior’s Atonement into my life.
I felt change in my life. The things I was struggling with faded. I became more confident in myself. I was able to open up to my parents and seek more assistance. I felt grateful to the Lord for all of the help I had received. I felt forgiven. I felt clean.
I grew to understand what that speaker meant all those years ago. When I centered my life around being ready for the Sabbath, I came closer to Jesus Christ in a way that purified me and made me stronger.
Through prayer and guidance from Heavenly Father, I learned that I could not walk through this life alone, but that the Savior and Heavenly Father truly had to be a part of my life. I learned that when I spent my whole week preparing to partake of the sacrament, I was better able to fully access the power of the Savior’s Atonement.
I learned that Heavenly Father loves us and has created a way for us to be forgiven and receive blessings, but we need to do our part to make it more meaningful. I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for all that He has done for me and continues to do for me when I remember to prepare for the Sabbath.