Gospel Story Finder

Joseph F. Smith was 19 when he returned from his mission in Hawaii. As he traveled from California to his home in Utah, he was confronted one morning by a “wagonload of profane drunks … , shooting their guns, yelling wildly, and cursing the Mormons.” One of the drunks, “waving a pistol,” came toward him. Although Joseph “was terrified, he felt it would be unwise and useless to run … , and so he advanced toward the gunman as if he found nothing out of the ordinary in his conduct. ‘Are you a ——— ——— ——— Mormon?’ the stranger demanded. Mustering all the composure he could, Joseph answered evenly while looking the man straight in the eye, ‘Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.’ Almost stunned by this wholly unexpected response, the gunman stopped, dropped his hands to his sides, and, after looking incredulously at Joseph for a moment, said in a subdued tone, ‘Well, you are the ——— ——— pleasantest man I ever met! Shake. I am glad to see a fellow stand for his convictions.’ So saying, he turned and walked away.”

In 1972 a couple and their six children were sealed in the temple. “I’ve never seen my mom and dad so happy as the day we went into the temple as a family. That day of joy was the culmination of more than twenty years of effort,” one daughter recalls. The wife explains: “I grew up in a strong LDS family but married a nonmember, thinking I could convert him. He joined the Church in 1953, but I learned before too long that he had done it just to get me to stop nagging him. He even started smoking and drinking after baptism, and he had never done either of those before. I guess I nagged him a lot in those years. I would self-righteously take the children to church and then come home and quarrel with him because he hadn’t gone too.”

What finally made the change? “I prayed so hard those years that I never took time to listen to the Lord’s answer. And when I heard it I ignored it. But finally I was so desperate that I felt I had no other choice than to do it His way: ‘You have to love him in,’ the Spirit would whisper to me. ‘Let him go at his own pace.’ So finally I did it and before too long we were at the temple.”

At the same time, the Lord was reaching out to this man in other ways. His colleagues at work had begun to ridicule Joseph Smith, and he felt he had to know if the things they were saying were true. If they were, he would leave the Church. “I started to read the Book of Mormon. I had never really tried to understand it before. It was a marvelous experience. And I learned how to defend the Church to the men at work and that it was defensible. I got so I really thirsted to know the truth. I went back to church. And all the while I was amazed at the quiet support my wife was giving me. Instead of nagging, instead of saying, ‘I told you so,’ like she once would have done when I started to go back, she simply took my hand and said she wanted to help me do whatever would make me happiest.”

Study and church attendance—even a thoughtful testimony borne on a fast Sunday—were followed by a review of the missionary discussions, giving up drinking, and having a difficult struggle to stop smoking. “I thought it would be easy for me to quit smoking, even though I had smoked for seven years—because I generally have good will power. But I tried and tried to quit and I couldn’t. Every time I definitely decided to quit, something would happen, and suddenly I would find myself with a cigarette in my hand and smoke coming out of my mouth. I had heard stories about the Lord taking the desire away from people when they sought him in prayer, but that didn’t work for me. Maybe I didn’t have strong enough faith, or maybe he wanted me to grow more from the struggle. I just knew that I couldn’t quit. Finally I went to the Lord in prayer and committed myself to him that I would never smoke again, even if it was difficult. It wasn’t easy—in fact, even now when I smell tobacco I have an urge to smoke again—but from that moment to this I have never broken my covenant.”

“I don’t think all these things would have happened if we hadn’t made a plan. Our home teachers taught us that the best thing we could do was to set specific goals for what we would have to do in our lives before we could go to the temple, and then of course to reach our goals by the designated time. First, we decided we would have to go to all our meetings. That was a hard one for me because I worked nights, and priesthood meeting started about an hour after my bedtime. But I went anyway. Second, I had to start living the Word of Wisdom; third, we had to pay tithing, and so on. Those goals really made the difference. They gave us a deadline for us to accomplish each step and a final date for when we wanted to be at the temple. That was the only approach that would have been effective for us.”

During a recent stake conference assignment I attended in the Philippines, my heart was broken as I learned of the tragic experience of Brother Daniel Apilado. Brother Apilado and his wife were baptized in 1974. They embraced the restored gospel and were sealed in the temple. Thereafter, they were blessed with five beautiful children. On July 7, 1997, while Brother Apilado was serving as the stake president, a fire broke out in their small home. Brother Apilado’s oldest son, Michael, rescued his father, pulled him from the burning structure, and then ran back into the house to rescue others. It was the last time Brother Apilado saw his son alive. Taken in the fire were Brother Apilado’s wife, Dominga, and each of their five children.
The fact that Brother Apilado was living a life pleasing unto God when tragedy struck did not prevent the tragedy, nor did it make him immune from the sorrow that followed. But his faithfulness in keeping his covenants and exercising his faith in Christ gave him assurance in the promise that he will be reunited with his wife and family. This hope became an anchor to his soul.
During my visit, Brother Apilado, now the stake patriarch, introduced me to his new wife, Simonette, and to their two sons, Raphael and Daniel. Truly, Jesus Christ can and will “bind up the brokenhearted.”
In sharing Brother Apilado’s story, I am concerned that the enormity of his loss may cause many to think their own sorrows and sufferings are of little consequence in comparison. Please don’t compare, but seek to learn and apply eternal principles as you wade through the furnace of your own afflictions.

I began college at age 18. After a short time, however, I transferred to another university and changed my major. My new university was only a couple of hours from my home, but I found myself terribly homesick and discouraged, wanting to give up and return to my family. Yet I knew if I did, I would be abandoning my chance to earn a degree.
One weekend not long after the school year began, all of my roommates went home for a visit. I knew that if I went home too, I would not return. I couldn’t even call and speak to my family for fear I would break down and not be able to focus on my studies. I had been praying for the strength to overcome my homesickness, but now I was praying to know whether I should even remain at school and complete a degree.
Early that Sunday morning as I walked slowly across the quiet campus on my way to church, I wondered how I could stay at school when I missed my home and family so deeply and couldn’t overcome my loneliness. But what would I do if I left school?
When I arrived at church, the previous ward had just left the chapel. I entered, hoping for a moment to pray for direction. As I found a place to sit and slowly moved onto the wooden pew, I noticed a printed program from the previous sacrament meeting. There on the front of the folded paper were the following words: “Perhaps the most valuable result of all education is the ability to make yourself do the thing you have to do, when it ought to be done, whether you like it or not.”1
At that moment I knew what I needed to do. The Lord had answered my prayers in such a simple way, but I could not deny that it was an answer just the same.
It wasn’t long after that Sunday that my loneliness and discouragement left. As a result, I enjoyed my remaining years in school. I gained a degree, lifelong friends, and a stronger testimony by following the promptings of the Spirit.
Now, more than 25 years later, I still recall that answer to my prayer, and I use those same words from that sacrament meeting program to commit myself to difficult tasks. I have shared my experience with close friends and family in hopes that they too might gain strength in difficult times.
I know the Lord cares about our feelings and everyday choices, and I know He answers our sincere prayers.

Tina was pretending to be a queen. She had on a foil crown and a purple cape, and all her dolls and stuffed animals sat before her.
“Read me a story!” she commanded. “Sing me a song!”
“Tina,” her mother called, “where are you? I need you.”
Tina ran into the kitchen, where her mother was stirring something on the stove. It smelled delicious.
“Did you need me to taste something, Mother?” she asked.
Her mother smiled. “No, your Majesty. I need you to feed Joey, please, while I finish stirring this pudding.”
Tina sighed as she sat down next to the high chair. Joey smiled at her as he got some applesauce on his chin. This was too messy a job for a queen! “Off with his head!” Tina ordered, waving the spoon. Joey giggled and clapped his hands, so Tina waved the spoon some more. “Arrest that baby!” she demanded. Joey laughed with delight.
Mother wiped Joey’s chin with a napkin and set a small bowl of pudding in front of Tina.
“Thank you so much for being my helper, Tina,” she said. “It makes me happy, and it makes Joey happy too.”
“It was fun,” Tina admitted. “But I’m not supposed to be a helper today. I’m a queen.”
“You are always a queen,” her mother said. “You are the best kind of queen, a helper queen.”
Tina gave Joey a spoonful of her pudding. “I’ve never heard of a helper queen before.”
Her mother looked surprised. “Helper queens are the most beautiful ones. They are loved by their subjects, and they always live happily ever after.” Mother gave Tina a quick hug, then carried Joey upstairs for his nap.
Tina ate her pudding slowly and listened to the soft lullaby her mother sang. “Bring me more pudding,” Tina whispered to nobody when her bowl was empty. “I’m the queen, and I can have all the pudding I want.” She carried her bowl and spoon over to the sink.
Mother came downstairs and asked, “Tina, would you like to help me put the pudding in dessert glasses for dinner?”
“OK.” Tina nodded. “Can we put marshmallows on top to surprise everyone?”
“That’s a great idea.”
Mother got a phone call, so Tina arranged marshmallows on the pudding by herself. She put four marshmallows around the outside and one in the middle so that they looked like a little white flower. She knew that her family would like that.
When the puddings were ready, Tina had to wait for her mother to help her put them into the refrigerator. She sat down by the window and spoke to herself in a low voice. “Get me a pony! The queen wishes to ride!”
When her mother got off the phone, she said, “Mrs. Owens had her baby. I’m going to take her dinner tonight, and I wish I had something special to take to her daughter, Lara. It’s hard sometimes for big sisters when a new baby comes home.”
Tina’s eyes lit up. “She can have my new purse with the mirror and comb, Mother. We can wrap it up really pretty.”
“That would be wonderful,” her mother said with a smile.
Tina rushed to her room to find the purse. Her dolls and stuffed animals still sat there, waiting for her commands. “Don’t just sit there,” she said in a deep voice. “There’s work to be done. Find my new purse, and wrap it up really pretty!” Tina took the present into the kitchen and set it on the table.
“You did a fine job of wrapping,” her mother said. “Or did your servants do that?”
“I had to help them,” Tina admitted.
“I thought so.” Mother nodded. “It looks like a queenly job to me.”
Tina smiled. “Mother, may I go to the Owens’s with you and give Lara the present?”
Later, when she went to Tina’s room to tell her that it was time to go, Mother was surprised to see all of Tina’s dolls and animals covered with blankets. Tina was sitting on the floor, quietly reading them a story.
“Are they going down for naps?” Mother whispered.
“No.” Tina showed her the nurse’s cap tucked around her crown. “All my subjects are sick, and I’m helping them get better.”
Tina’s mother smiled. “I’m proud of you, Tina. You are truly the greatest helper queen ever!”

Similar to the above accident, but with much more serious consequences, was the situation of a young man who came to see me. He confessed to a serious sin, but thought that he should be allowed to continue as if nothing had happened because “It was an accident. I really didn’t intend to do it,” he said.

No one really wants to commit sins, but at the same time, I don’t think that very many, if any, sins are really as much an accident as they are the direct result of “loss of control.”

When I interviewed in-depth this young man I found out that his life was very much out of control. He was seeing the same young lady much, much too often and was spending too many hours at a time with her, and they were going to the wrong places and doing the wrong things. They were “an accident waiting for a place to happen.” Satan provided the place, and the “accident” happened. They were living too fast. They had lost control of their speed. They were going in the wrong direction. They were not in holy places. They were not doing the right things. They were not home at the appropriate hour their parents had asked them to be. They had begun to lose their virtue piecemeal. No one was in control at all.

I ran the soup kitchen at the Food and Care Coalition in Provo, Utah, for 11 years. We encouraged our patrons to help us when they could. One man, Mike (name has been changed), had been living in his car for about four years. He always volunteered to help, and I appreciated everything he did for me.
It was the Christmas season, and I wanted to show my appreciation, so I gave him a Christmas card with a short message expressing my thanks and a book of tickets to the dollar-movie theater that was close by. Mike was overwhelmed. He thanked me several times and said he couldn’t remember the last time he had received a present from anyone.
This happened at about noon on Christmas Eve. After dinner that evening, Mike came to me and apologized for having given away two of the movie tickets. I told him they were his, and he could do whatever he wanted with them. He said, “Well, this lady was sitting across from me at dinner. I’d never seen her before, but she told me it was her birthday and she hadn’t received any presents. So I gave her one of the tickets.”
“Then, there was a man sitting by me,” Mike continued. “We got to talking. I found out he was leaving on the bus tonight, but it didn’t leave until 11:00 p.m., and he had nowhere to wait until it came. I gave him one of the tickets so he could go in where it was warm and watch a movie.”
I was so teary eyed and choked up that I could hardly tell him what a generous and Christlike thing he had done.

At a 20-year high school reunion, one of the graduates had a surprising conversation with one of her classmates that went something like this:
“I came to this reunion after all these years hoping you would be here so I could thank you. My high school experience was hard for me. You may not have known it, but you were the only friend I had in high school. I wondered if maybe the seminary teacher had assigned you to be nice to me. Did he?”
“No, he didn’t assign me.”
“Well, you didn’t know it, but every day I looked for you because I knew that you would talk to me. You made me feel better about myself. Now I am married and have a large family. During these past years I have thought many times of what you meant to me, and I wanted to tell you that.”

December 17, 2024, began like any other day in Port Vila, Vanuatu. The city was alive with holiday preparations, and I was at work in a popular clothing store, helping customers and wrapping gifts. Then, without warning, the ground beneath us shook violently.
As a 26-year-old returned missionary, currently serving in the stake Primary, I had faced many faith-strengthening trials before—but nothing could have prepared me for this. Yet, in that moment of sudden chaos, I wasn’t afraid. I distinctly heard a still, small voice tell me, “Jane, you will be OK.”
What began as a small tremor escalated into a powerful earthquake. Instinctively, people ran for safety, but before I could reach the exit, I was struck on the shoulder by a falling TV screen. I fell to the floor as darkness engulfed me.
For a moment, panic threatened to overtake me, but a quiet, reassuring feeling filled my heart. Though I was trapped, I knew I was not alone. A minute later the still, small voice said, “Turn yourself around!” As I turned my body around, I found that my hands were OK, my head was OK, and nothing on my body was injured. I could sit up a little but not stand because of a heavy wall on top of me.
Somewhere nearby, I heard the voices of a woman and her son, also caught beneath the rubble. We spoke to each other, reassuring one another that help would come. They had a phone, but reaching anyone was difficult as networks were down. Hours passed as we waited, unable to move, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and the murmurs of people working above us. I prayed, trusting that my Heavenly Father knew where I was and that He would send help.
As night fell, an unexpected blessing came—fresh air. Despite being buried beneath the collapsed building, we could still breathe deeply, and I felt a quiet peace settle over me. Though the situation was dire, I knew in my heart that God was aware of us.
Early the next morning, we heard voices above us. Rescue teams had arrived. The young man trapped with his mother called out, and soon the rescuers responded. One by one, they carefully worked to clear a path, bringing first his mother to safety and then him. Before leaving, the rescuers promised to return for me. I watched as the last bit of light from their escape route faded, and for the first time since the earthquake, I was alone.
Minutes turned to hours, and again I prayed. I reflected on the blessings of my life: the love of my family, the strength I had gained from serving a mission, and the covenants I had made with my Heavenly Father. In that quiet, sacred space, I felt an overwhelming assurance that I was in His hands.
Finally, a rescuer called my name. “Sister Jane, can you see my light?” I turned my head and saw a small beam of light piercing the darkness. “Yes!” I called back, tears welling in my eyes.
The rescue team worked carefully. They reassured me that they would proceed cautiously to avoid further collapse. I knew their work was dangerous, and I silently prayed for their protection as well as mine. Piece by piece, they cleared the rubble until they reached me. As strong arms lifted me into the light, I was overwhelmed by the sight of so many people waiting—cheering, crying, praying. Then I heard the voice I longed for most. “Jane, Mommy is here.” My mother’s arms wrapped around me, and I knew I was home.
After 27 hours trapped beneath a collapsed building, I emerged without injury. My heart swelled with gratitude—not just for my physical safety but for the undeniable presence of God in my life. Through prayer and faith, I was strengthened, comforted, and ultimately delivered.
I am grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, for the power of prayer, and for the knowledge that no matter how dark our trials may seem, His light will always find us.

Carlos was too small to walk the dog or mow the lawn. But he was big enough to help.
He could help Dad wash the dishes, and he could help Mom fold clothes.
One day Carlos was helping Grandpa pull weeds when Mrs. Lopez walked past.
“I need to pull my weeds today too,” she said.
Mrs. Lopez looks busy, Carlos thought. When she went inside, he grabbed a big bucket and started pulling weeds in her flowerbed.
Carlos worked until the weeds were all gone. Then he grabbed his bucket and hurried back to his house.
Mom’s probably cooking dinner, Carlos thought. And I’m big enough to help!

Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900, “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. … His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3, “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.

I was enjoying my full-time mission in the beautiful mountains of Cajamarca, Peru, when my father suddenly suffered a stroke. Shortly afterward, he was gone.
When I met with my mission president, I wept as I remembered that my dad had taught me what it means to be a missionary and a man of integrity. He had written me each week, sharing his testimony, teaching me powerful gospel insights, and encouraging me to do my best.
After our meeting, the mission president handed me a letter—the last one from my father. His letter reached into my future, giving me words that meant the world to me:
“You have another [mission] coming in a few months—a most difficult mission, where you will be counted on to dedicate your life to the principles you have taught, to doing the things which, up to this point, you have only preached. It can be the most productive mission. You are like the leaven in the loaf. …
“We love you and pray for you daily. Work hard and do the right things.”
As I read his words, I cried—for sorrow, knowing they were his last words to me in this life, and for joy, knowing their power and purpose for me. I knew that my next mission—the rest of my life—would mean everything. It would be a time of true testing, and it would require all that I had learned and experienced as a missionary.
I know that Heavenly Father has a deeply purposeful plan for each of us. He can elevate our moments on earth and give us eyes to see and know His truth. I’ve seen this as I’ve committed my life to Him and experienced His blessings. And I’ve seen this as my beautiful wife and I have worked together to build a family filled with hopes, children, and the gospel.
The Savior has brought us strength as we’ve gone to our knees, to the scriptures, to the temple, and to others in service. I’ve seen the Lord’s hand unfold during amazing moments in my life as I’ve shared the gospel with family and friends.
His mission is “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39). That mission truly does continue.

I used to look at the Old Testament in sort of the same way I looked at fairy tales—neat stories that didn’t really mean much to me. Separated by thousands of years of history, they seemed out of my grasp. However, my seminary teacher loved the Old Testament, and his enthusiasm and humble testimony began to instill in me a greater reverence for these scriptures.
One night as I was reading, I came across this scripture: “And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” (Ex. 33:11).
I read these words and thought little of it. The Lord spoke to Moses. Of course he did. It was only natural that the Lord would appear personally to one of the greatest prophets that ever lived.
Then I prayed, and I started to think about that scripture. I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t appear to me that night, but maybe I should try to speak to him “as a man speaketh to his friend.” It was then that I felt his love envelop me. As I prayed, I restated what I had read in the scriptures.
“Moses spoke to thee face to face, just like a friend.” I stopped. I said it again and then again. Then it hit me. The realization was so profound, yet so simple. Moses saw God face to face. Suddenly, the days of the Old Testament weren’t so distant, and I realized that Moses was a mortal, just like me. The scriptures came to life in my mind; I simply knew that Moses had actually lived and breathed, that he, too, had experienced challenges and struggled with lack of confidence. Yet he talked to the Messiah, the Jehovah of Israel, his Lord and Redeemer, my Lord and Redeemer, in the same manner that I spoke to my own earthly father.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed again, “I want this more than anything else. I want to return to thee!” I closed my prayer and crawled into bed, feeling His love more tangibly than I ever had before in my life.

Our family has six children, who sometimes tease one another that they are the favourite child. Each has different reasons for being preferred. Our love for each of our children is pure and fulfilling and complete. We could not love any one of them any more than another—with each child’s birth came the most beautiful expansion of our love. I most relate to my Heavenly Father’s love for me through the love that I feel for my children.
As they each rehearse their claims to be the most loved child, you might have thought that our family had never had an untidy bedroom. The sense of blemishes in the relationship between parent and child is diminished with a focus on love.
At some point, perhaps because I can see that we are heading toward an inevitable family riot, I’ll say something like, “OK, you have worn me down, but I am not going to announce it; you know which one of you is my favourite.” My goal is that each one of the six feels victorious and all-out war is avoided—at least until next time!

“Thursday, March 26—President McKay told an interesting story. He said, ‘A farmer had a large tract of land. When he grew old it became too much for him. He had a family of boys. He called the boys around him and told them they would have to carry the load. The father rested. But one day he walked out into the field. The boys told him to go back, they did not need his help. He said, “My shadow on this farm is worth more than the labor of all of you.”’ President McKay said that the father in the story represented President Stephen L Richards, who was ill, but whose contribution and friendship President McKay valued so highly.

In August of this year, there occurred a tragedy in Salt Lake County. It was reported in the local and national press. Five beautiful little girls—so young, so vibrant, so loving—hiding away, as children often do in their games of hide-and-seek, entered the trunk of a parent’s car. The trunk lid was pulled shut, they were unable to escape, and all perished from heat exhaustion.
The entire community was so kind, so thoughtful, so caring in the passing of Alisha, Ashley, McKell, Audrey, and Jaesha. Flowers, food, calls, visits, and prayers were shared.
On the Sunday after the devastating event occurred, long lines of automobiles filled with grieving occupants drove ever so slowly past the Smith home—the scene of the accident. Sister Monson and I wished to be among those who expressed condolences in this way. As we drove by, we felt we were on holy ground. We literally crept along at a snail’s pace along the street. It was as though we could visualize a traffic sign reading, “Please drive slowly; children at play.” Tears filled our eyes and compassion flowed from our hearts.
At the funeral, as well as the evening prior, thousands passed by the caskets and expressed support for the grieving parents and grandparents. In two of the three families, the deceased children were all the children they had.
Frequently death comes as an intruder. It is an enemy that suddenly appears in the midst of life’s feast, putting out its lights and gaiety. It visits the aged as they walk on faltering feet. Its summons is heard by those who have scarcely reached midway in life’s journey, and often it hushes the laughter of little children.
At the funeral services for the five little angels, I counseled: “There is one phrase which should be erased from your thinking and from the words you speak aloud. It is the phrase, ‘If only.’ It is counterproductive and is not conducive to the spirit of healing and of peace. Rather, recall the words of Proverbs: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’”
Before the closing of the caskets, I noted that each child held a favorite toy, a soft gift to cuddle. I reflected on the words of the poet Eugene Field:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
The little toy dog and the soldier fair may wonder, but God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.”

Elizabeth touched the pine chest lovingly. Her fingers sought and found the tiny initials carved into the corner of it: “J.B.” For Joseph Buck. Her father.
“Why can’t we take the chest?” she asked her mother one more time. “It wouldn’t take up much room in the wagon. Papa made it for me. I can’t leave it. I can’t.”
She pretended not to notice the tears that gathered in Mama’s eyes as she continued packing, choosing what to take and what to leave behind.
Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of guilt at her selfishness. But how could she leave such an important part of her father behind? It was the only thing she had to remember him by. “I won’t take anything else, if I can take the chest,” she promised.
“Elizabeth,” Mama began in a tired voice, “it’s not my decision. The Burtons were kind enough to let us travel with them. There’s just no room for the chest.”
Elizabeth knew her mother was right. The Burtons had four small children. Their covered wagon was already filled, with barely room for a few of Elizabeth’s and her mother’s belongings. They would all have to walk by the wagon during the day and sleep under it at nights.
“Do you remember what your father said before … before he died?” Mama asked.
Elizabeth nodded. Just before he died of a fever the month before, he had whispered to her, “Be true to the gospel, child. It will sustain you.”
She’d been eight when she and her parents were baptized three years ago—she could still remember the special glow she felt when she emerged from the water. But what did that have to do with leaving behind the chest? “Did Papa want us to follow President Young’s counsel to go to a place so far away?” she asked.
“Yes, he did,” Mama said, adding gently, “I know that you don’t want to leave the chest behind, but remember that all of us are leaving things we treasure.”
Elizabeth followed her mother’s gaze around their home. It was small but clean and welcoming with its homespun curtains and Papa’s handcarved furniture. “I know, Mama,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry to be leaving our home, too, but there is something even more precious that we are leaving behind.” Her mother led Elizabeth to the window and pointed outside.
Elizabeth saw the roses and petunias first. Though she knew it hurt Mama to leave the flowers she had so painstakingly nurtured, she also knew that Mama was pointing higher, at the Nauvoo Temple.
Elizabeth remembered how Mama had sold her piano and given the money to help raise the walls of the temple that now gleamed softly in the late afternoon sunlight. When Elizabeth had asked Mama how she could sacrifice her beautiful piano, Mama smiled. “It’s no sacrifice, Elizabeth, to give up something precious for something even more precious.”
“What could be more precious than your piano?” Elizabeth had asked. “You loved that piano, Mama.”
“The temple,” Mama had said simply. “I loved that piano especially because my mother gave it to me. But I love the Lord’s house much, much more.”
“Why did we build a temple when we have to leave it so soon?”
“The Lord commanded us to build a temple because it’s an important part of the gospel,” Mama said. “Without it, we couldn’t be sealed together for eternity.”
Elizabeth thought about that as they continued packing. Before she was baptized, she’d asked her father how he knew the Church was true.
He’d taken his time in answering. “I knew that we had found the true church when I learned of the temple.” He’d paused then, and tears had filled his eyes. “And I knew because I felt it here,” he said, touching his heart. “I still do.”
A warmth settled around Elizabeth’s own heart at the memory.
At last they were done. The pile of belongings to take with them to their new home was pitifully small. The house looked empty, forlorn, even though much of the furniture remained. Elizabeth’s pine chest sat in the corner. She trailed her fingers over the design in the pine, her fingers coming to rest again on the initials. After tracing the smooth grain of the wood one last time, she stood. She carried with her something far more precious that her papa had left her. The memory of his testimony, strong and sure, wrapped itself around her heart as she followed her mother out the door.

Bienvenida moved to New York from the Dominican Republic in 1974 and was baptized into the Church seven years later. Leury was born and raised in New York and joined the Church when he was 10 years old. At age 7 Leury started taking piano lessons and developed into a fine young pianist, winning several competitions. After serving a mission Leury hopes to attend college, where he plans to major in computer animation and programming and to minor in music.

What is the Perez family’s secret to keeping it all together? “Knowing the commandments helps us to stay focused on the important things in life,” says Bienvenida. “As a single mom with two jobs, I know that the Church is very important. Seeing Leury blossom in the faith gives me a sense of happiness that I cannot quantify.”

Before long, life was back to normal—school, playing, and, of course, church. On fast Sunday, just as she had said she would, Mimi bore her testimony. When she stood to speak, her knees trembled and her tummy did flip-flops. She never knew so many people could fit in the chapel, and they were all looking at her! She almost wanted to sit down again. But then she saw her family smiling at her.
She took a deep breath and began, “I know that Heavenly Father is really there and that He listens to our prayers. I know that because when I talked to Him about something really important, I felt all warm and calm inside. And I believe in the priesthood and in blessings, because everything my dad promised in Ben’s blessing happened just the way he said it would. And I believe in the scriptures because they promised that Heavenly Father will answer our prayers.” She looked at Ben. “I know that He answered mine. And I love Him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mimi felt an even greater love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as she walked back to her seat. She saw tears in Mom’s eyes, but she was smiling. Daddy slipped his arm around her and whispered, “Now that, sweetheart, is what bearing testimony is all about.”

I had just passed my 12th birthday and had my interview with my bishop for ordination as a deacon. My father, who had served as a bishop a few years previously, ordained me. During his prayer he blessed me that I might appreciate those who had made it possible for me to enjoy the blessing of the Church and especially the priesthood.
Being only 12 years old I didn’t quite understand what he meant. The next Sunday I assisted in passing the sacrament. Mother had fussed over me to see that I was properly dressed for this occasion, while Dad just looked on and smiled.
I must confess it was an interesting and exciting event. Being a deacon meant I was growing up, and this was a comforting thought.
After lunch that day my father came toward me with a family book in his hand. He explained it was the journal, or the life story, of my grandfather who lived in Wales.
“I want you to read this,” he said, “especially these last pages.” With that he placed it on the table in front of me and left to join mother in the living room.
Now why should a 12-year-old boy want to read ancient stuff like that when there was a football game on T.V.? There was only one good reason, and that was my father wanted me to read it. He had put a marker in the page where he wanted me to start.
This is what I read:
It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the beech trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mom’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, andshe was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.
William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew but became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk slung over his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over Rhysog Mountain? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair with a bit of wave in it. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair with a bit of wave in it, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved the most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away two of my sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my sons’ letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from son number two read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a 12-year-old cannot stay sad very long. “Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a bit of wave.”