Gospel Story Finder

When I was 11, I was having doubts about if I was ready to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. The day of my ordination was getting closer and closer.
I had been taught that if I prayed to my Heavenly Father sincerely, I would get an answer from Him. So I knelt down and asked about the things I was doubting.
Later that day, I felt like I should read the scriptures. I felt prompted to turn to Doctrine and Covenants 20. This section talks about priesthood duties and responsibilities. As I read, verse 59 stood out to me. It reads, “They are, however, to warn, expound, exhort, and teach, and invite all to come unto Christ.” These words inspired me. As I read them, I knew that I would be ready to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.
Heavenly Father cared for me and gave me an answer that I needed to hear. Now as a deacon, I have looked back on my experiences and found that the teachings of that scripture are true. I am grateful that I chose to receive the priesthood. I look forward to serving the Lord as I advance in the priesthood.

At that time the small group of Saints was officially organized as the Jerusalem Branch, President Cannon calling for the sustaining votes. Brother Galbraith was set apart as branch president by President Lee, and Elder Hinckley set me apart as first counselor. I have received numerous blessings in the Church at the hands of the priesthood but none so inspiring as that given to me on this occasion. Elder Hinckley’s words concerning matters that he could not have known without revelation from the Lord, and the subsequent fulfillment of two specific promises given in that blessing, are additional evidence of the Spirit that guides the leaders of the Church.
I made a deliberate attempt to gain some idea of the reaction of the brethren when the call was made for sustaining votes, and hence looked in President Lee’s direction. I have often sat in conferences of the Church and raised my hand to sustain the prophet of the Lord. But this was the first time I had ever witnessed a prophet raising his hand to sustain me. It was something I’ll never forget, something which, embedded in my memory, will remind me of my responsibilities if ever I hesitate to do that which the Lord requires of me.

Baptism Then and Now
Maggie, 11, and Lily, 9, were baptized in a font near the place where the first members of the Church were baptized.
Both girls were very excited to be baptized. When it was Lily’s turn to be baptized, she had an interview with her bishop. “He asked me if I had a testimony of the prophet and if I paid my tithing,” Lily said.
The girls both have good memories of their baptismal days. “When I came out of the water, I had a feeling that I could do anything,” Maggie said.
Both girls got journals so they could record their feelings about their special days.

It was a hot summer day in Japan. I was 10 months into my mission and had finished packing my luggage and getting ready to transfer to another area. Now I was leaving the apartment to catch a train to a new city.
More than anything, I remember the look my companion and I gave each other then. Usually farewells like these are marked by words of thanks and well-wishing. But I remember my companion’s simply glancing down the hall at me with no hint of friendliness. I did the same to him and then walked out the door.
The previous five weeks of my mission had been bitter and contentious. I had been in the city for several months when this companion had arrived. From day one we started fighting. We found we had different attitudes and ideas. When we had disagreements, instead of cooperating, we blamed each other and insisted that the other one change.
Some nights we came home frustrated and barely talked to each other. Most mornings we almost dreaded having to leave the apartment. The work in the area suffered as contention and selfishness drove away the Spirit.
When I transferred, I moved on to new places and experiences, but I often found myself thinking back on the unpleasant memories of those five weeks. As I gained maturity and experience, I felt regret. I began to recognize the good things my companion had done and realized how foolish our arguments had been. Sometimes I would hear other missionaries say complimentary things about him. Deep down, I felt guilty that I had nothing good to say.
Months later, I was reading back through my journal entries from that month. As I thought back on my mistakes and the way I had left, I resolved to do something. I knew I might never see him again, but I followed an impression I had and wrote him a long letter, apologizing and expressing my desire to reconcile.
Three weeks later my zone leader called. I was being transferred to another new city. To my surprise, he told me that I had been assigned to work again with that same missionary.
Having the same companion twice was very rare in my mission, and I knew it wasn’t happening by chance. The day we met again, he thanked me for sending the letter, and we spent a long time that night talking and making amends.
Our second time together was the opposite of the first. This time we put aside our arguments and turned to cooperation and respect. As the days flew by, we became close friends and would come home at night talking and laughing about how the day had gone. We were always eager to go out again the next morning. We had the Spirit with us as we worked and taught, and we had much more success as a result.
After a few weeks my companion was transferred. The day he left, we gave each other a warm embrace. This time, I experienced the bittersweet feeling of saying good-bye to a friend.
A few years have passed, but I still remember the valuable lessons I learned about friendship, forgiveness, and second chances. We don’t always get another chance the way my companion and I did, and I learned that it’s best to make amends before it’s too late.

When temple visits for my branch were announced, I attended. Even though I could not yet enter the temple, I often walked the temple grounds. I prayed to Heavenly Father expressing my deepest desires to one day enter the temple. Some of these visits were only 10 minutes, but they had a profound impact on my spirit.
On one particularly cold and rainy evening, I arrived at the temple late. Although the grounds were closed, temple security allowed me a few moments on the grounds. I had with me a copy of the temple’s dedicatory prayer. I was impressed to read it.
I was filled with emotions as I read the following words: “Wilt Thou whisper peace to Thy people by the power of Thy Spirit when they come here with burdened hearts to seek direction in their perplexities. Wilt Thou comfort and sustain them when they come in times of sorrow. Wilt Thou give them courage, direction, and faith, when they gather, as to a refuge, from the turmoil of the world. Wilt Thou reassure them of Thy reality and divinity, and of the reality and divinity of Thy resurrected Son.”1
I knew then that my visits to the temple grounds meant something to the Lord, even though I was not inside the temple.

Let me give you two or three vignettes.
The first is that of a young man who served in the Bolivia Cochabamba Mission. He lives with his faithful mother and nieces in a poor neighborhood. Their little home has a concrete floor, one lightbulb, the roof leaks, and the window is broken. He was a successful missionary. He says:
“My mission was the best thing that I have been able to do in my life. I learned to be obedient to the commandments and to be patient in my afflictions. I also learned some English and to manage my money, my time, and my skills better.
“Then, when I finished my mission, going home was difficult. My American companions went back to a university. But there is a lot of poverty in our country. It is very difficult to get an education. My mother does her best, but she can’t help us. She has suffered so much, and I am her hope.
“When I learned of the Perpetual Education Fund, I felt so happy. The prophet recognized our efforts. I was filled with joy. … There was a possibility I could study, become self-reliant, have a family, help my mother.
“I will study accounting at a local school where I can study and work. It is a short course, just three years long. I have to keep working as a janitor, but that is OK. Once I graduate and get a job in accounting, I will work toward higher education in international business.
“This is our opportunity, and we cannot fail. The Lord trusts us. I have read many times in the Book of Mormon the words the Lord told the prophets, that as we keep the commandments, we would prosper in the land. This is being fulfilled. I am so grateful to God for this great opportunity to receive what my brothers and sisters did not have, to help my family, to accomplish my goals. And I am excited to repay the loan to see others be so blessed. I know the Lord will bless me as I do it.”
Now, isn’t that wonderful?

If you need miracles or blessings, family history can help you. Sam and Betsy (names have been changed) experienced such a miracle in their family. They had a child who was estranged from them for years. Inspired by the talk “Family History and Temple Work: Sealing and Healing” by Elder Renlund, they decided to dedicate time each Sunday to work on family history. After many months, they were reunited with their child and are rebuilding their relationship. The Spirit confirmed to them that this miracle came because they followed Elder Renlund’s invitation to do family history work.

I spoke one day to a friend escaped from his native land. With the fall of his nation, he had been arrested and interned. His wife and children had been able to get away, but for three years and more he had been a prisoner without means of communication with those he loved. The food had been wretched, the living conditions oppressive, with no prospects for improvement.
“What sustained you through all those dark days?” I asked.
He responded: “My faith; my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. I put my burdens on him, and then they seemed so much the lighter.”

The 1970s were difficult times in Guatemala. We experienced the devastating earthquake of 1976 that destroyed many pueblos in the rural areas and in the poor sectors of the city. My adobe home was totally destroyed. In addition to the natural disasters, government oppression was prevalent everywhere. It was difficult to witness the social and political violence against the poor, students, workers, and other good people and to feel completely powerless to do anything about it. My husband, Israel, prayed and fasted about what to do. He was inspired to be involved in the movement to protect the rights of laborers, who were at that time earning $0.52 per day, working under inhumane conditions.

In a country with a lot of political and social violence, my husband’s involvement had a high cost for our young family. We were living under an authoritarian government that interpreted any dissent from the social, economic, and political status quo as an open conspiracy against it. Soon anonymous threats against my husband’s life appeared everywhere. Twice government forces attempted to kidnap my husband. That was a time when people who disagreed with the government’s policies would be abducted in the dark and taken to unknown places, and then, days later, their bodies would appear with signs of torture. It was dangerous to voice your disagreements with the cruelties happening everywhere in Guatemala.

Berta, our first child, was born in 1978. She was a long-awaited blessing for us. She came to the world in times of oppression, fear, and violence. When Berta was only six weeks old, my husband experienced the first of two assassination attempts by the Guatemalan government, this one in front of our home. Later in life, Berta eloquently wrote about the impact of war on children living under constant fear. She was one of those children. She wrote:
I feel bad for every child in the womb that subsequently experiences infancy . . . under the shadows of war, violence, greed, and imperialism. I know that every child who is living now under the reign of terror, war, abuse, and trauma is going to carry great heaviness with them their entire lives. . . . Warfare, PTSD, exile—all of these things cast such long shadows.

In the last assassination attempt, an innocent person died as government assassins tried to kill my husband. After this last attempt, we knew that it was impossible for us to continue living in Guatemala in those conditions. As the government attempted to stop the social restlessness of its people, several leaders of the movement disappeared, were incarcerated, or were killed. Many of our dear friends suffered this fate. Three bishops of the Church were killed during those terrible years. All of them had families and were followers of the Savior. Why did they not survive? Many times we wondered why we were spared from the unfortunate fate that had followed our good friends. What did the Lord want us to learn from those difficult experiences?

Having faith in God’s plan for us was crucial as we tried to see what His will was for us. My husband, our daughter Berta, and I were forced to seek refuge at one of the foreign embassies in Guatemala. After a month of negotiations between the government and the embassy, we were allowed to leave the country under the embassy’s diplomatic protection. This was the beginning of our lives as refugees in a strange land, far away from the support of our family and friends.

Our time as refugees was a time in which it was more important than ever to keep an eternal perspective in our lives, but I am going to tell you that keeping a divine perspective in the middle of trials is not always easy. It was certainly not easy for us. For six years we wandered from Guatemala to Costa Rica and from Costa Rica to Mexico, trying to find a place where we could live in peace and raise our family. Having the gospel in our lives gave us direction, understanding, and comfort. The Lord’s hand guided us as we tried to create a future for our family. When things became difficult, I would remember Isaiah’s promise that the Lord would strengthen us so that we could keep walking and not faint.

The Lord strengthened us as we were trying to figure out where to settle. We already had family here, and it made sense that coming to the United States would be a good option for us; however, we resisted the idea. We were trusting in our plans, not knowing that the Lord had a better plan for us. We stayed in Costa Rica for a few years but later decided to settle in Mexico City. But again, the Lord had other plans for us.

In 1985 a devastating earthquake destroyed a good part of Mexico City. Many people were trapped in the collapsed buildings, and thousands lost their lives. We were fortunate to come out of that tragedy with only material losses. Again the Lord had spared our lives. Many things changed after the earthquake, and it was not easy to continue living in Mexico City. By then we had four children under the age of eight. This prompted us to make the crucial decision to move to the United States. This was another opportunity to grow, and we ventured out again into the unknown.

We arrived in California, where we could be closer to our family. None of us spoke the ­language, knew the culture, or understood the environment, yet I believe the Lord, with His ­complete perspective, saw for us what we could not see at the time.

A few years ago, while I was sitting in sacrament meeting one Sunday, I felt particularly weighed down by my weaknesses and imperfections. I remembered a talk given by President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who spoke about the significance of the sacrament:
“How ‘sacred’ and how ‘holy’ is [the sacrament]? Do we see it as our passover, remembrance of our safety and deliverance and redemption?
“… (The sacrament) should be a powerful, reverent, reflective moment. It should encourage spiritual feelings and impressions. As such it should not be rushed. It is not something to ‘get over’ so that the real purpose of a sacrament meeting can be pursued. This is the real purpose of the meeting.”
But I wasn’t sure how to make my experience in sacrament meeting like this.
At this time in my life, I felt that I was not thinking about the sacrament the way I really wanted to. Instead of focusing on Jesus Christ, I was distracted by every thought that drifted in and out of my head as the bread and water were passed. But on this Sunday, I wanted to feel the Spirit.
I thought about how the Savior, before beginning His Atonement, introduced His Apostles to the sacrament at the Last Supper.
This introduction to the sacrament was an intimate experience shared between Him and His Apostles. Sometimes I wish I could have witnessed it firsthand. I wish I could have gotten to know the Savior like His Apostles did.
So, after the bread was blessed, I prayed to Heavenly Father. I asked for forgiveness and to be made clean through Jesus Christ. I asked Him to help me keep my thoughts on the Savior and remember what this ordinance means for my life and for my covenants.
When I concluded my prayer, I thought about Jesus Christ’s life and all the stories about His earthly ministry, from His humble birth in Bethlehem to His glorious visit to the Americas. I thought of His Atonement and what that sacrifice means for me.
I started seeing how everything about the gospel is interconnected, with Jesus Christ being the centerpiece. After this sacrament meeting, I began to stay more focused on the Savior in my daily life. This change was gradual at first, but as the weeks passed and I continued to focus on Him, I understood what the prophet Isaiah meant when he said, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:18).
Partaking of the sacrament while pondering the life of the Savior can bridge the gap between us and allow us to have an intimate experience with Him each week.
I know I can feel the Savior’s healing power and perfect love because I make time to focus on Him every day. He knows me personally! And focusing on Him has truly helped me enhance my understanding of His renewing power that I can access as I participate in the sacrament ordinance.
I know now that through Christ, we truly can be white as snow.

I think of an account I read about the wife of one of our early pioneers. Her name was Catherine Curtis Spencer. Her husband, Orson Spencer, was a sensitive, well-educated man. She had been reared in Boston and was cultured and refined. She and Orson had six children. After leaving Nauvoo, her delicate health declined from exposure and hardship. Elder Spencer wrote to her parents and asked if she could return to live with them while he established a home for her in the West. Their reply: “Let her renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back, but never until she does.” Sister Spencer would not renounce her faith. When her parents’ letter was read to her, she asked her husband to get his Bible and read to her from the book of Ruth: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God” (Ruth 1:16). Outside the storm raged, the wagon covers leaked, and friends held milk pans over Sister Spencer’s head to keep her dry. In these conditions, and without a word of complaint, she closed her eyes for the last time.

One of my favorite places to go to is my grandma’s house. She lives in Colonia Juárez, a little town in northern Mexico. When my family visits Grandma, we get to milk the cow and play in the hay. We can go for walks up the mountain to the irrigation ditch, and we get to water the garden.
When it’s really hot, a man comes around pushing a little cart and shouting “Helados! Helados!” Helado means ice cream in Spanish, and sometimes if we’ve been good, Dad buys us some so we can cool off. There’s another man who drives an old truck with a little freezer in the back that’s full of paletas (Popsicles), and they’re the best I’ve ever tasted.
But the thing I enjoy most at Grandma’s is playing by the river. It’s usually just a little stream, but when there’s a lot of rain in the mountains, the river fills up and goes to the top of its banks and almost runs over the bridge.
When the river’s just little, my two big brothers, Alma and Aaron, take me down to the river to play. We hide in the willows, throw rocks in the water, or look for water skeeters. And sometimes, when we have permission, we walk across the swinging bridge.
Now a swinging bridge isn’t like any other bridge. You can’t drive a car over it, because it’s just for walking on. It’s made with boards on top of steel cables that stretch across the river. When you walk across the bridge, you have to hold on to the side cables because the boards move up and down and sideways. The bridge squeaks a lot, too, when it moves. When you get out in the middle of the bridge, it’s real scary because the bridge is moving and the water is way down below.
My brothers and I like to hold hands as we walk across the swinging bridge. We laugh when it sways back and forth and bounces up and down and tickles our tummies.
The first summer I can remember spending with Grandma, I played so hard that I was glad to go to bed at night. But the first night I couldn’t go to sleep. There was an awful noise coming from the river. It sounded like a whole bunch of people screaming. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared!
I asked Alma what the noise was, and he and Aaron laughed. They said it was just frogs croaking their heads off. Well, I’d heard frogs before, but I didn’t know they could make such an awful noise. I was still scared, and I started to cry. I cried until my dad came in to see what was wrong.
Dad lay down by me and told me that it was just the frogs. He told me not to be afraid, but I was still scared, and I said I didn’t want to stay in Mexico anymore. I wanted to go back home to my own bed where there weren’t any frogs screaming outside my window.
Dad and Mom let me sleep with them that night. Their room is on the other side of the house, and I couldn’t hear the screaming over there. When Dad put me in their bed, he asked me if I’d said my prayers. Well, I hadn’t because I’d been so tired that I’d forgotten all about my prayers. I knelt down by my dad and asked Heavenly Father to help me to not be afraid. After that I went right to sleep.
In the morning I’d forgotten all about the frogs, because they don’t scream in the daytime. The first thing I wanted to do was to go down to the swinging bridge. We went down there and were walking across the bridge when we saw two boys below us, catching things by the river. They had just put something into a can when they heard the paleta truck coming. They dropped their can and ran up the road to meet the truck.
I wanted to know what they’d put in their can, so I ran the rest of the way across the bridge and down to where they’d dropped the can. Lying in the dust, all dirty and dry, was a little frog. It was breathing hard, and it looked like it might die. I picked it up and took it back to the river and washed it off. Then I put it in a can of water with some moss and rocks in the bottom. I decided to call the frog Wilbur.
I took Wilbur back to the house to show my mom and dad and grandma. When I told Dad that I was going to take Wilbur home to Arizona with me, he said that Wilbur would be happier in the river by the swinging bridge because that was his home.
“You know, Janet,” my dad said, “Wilbur is one of the frogs that was singing last night.”
“Singing? That didn’t sound like singing to me.”
“That’s how frogs sing,” Dad said. “They sit down by the river and wait for mosquitoes and fat flies to go by. Then they stick out their long sticky tongues and catch those flies and mosquitoes for their supper. When they’re full, they sing because they’re so happy.”
“Will Wilbur sing for me?”
“If you put him in the river where he’s happy. He isn’t very happy in a little can of water.”
Well, I didn’t want to let Wilbur go, but I wanted him to be happy. So I let him loose by the river, under the swinging bridge, and he hopped away.
That night I could hardly wait to go to bed. I wasn’t tired. I just wanted to listen to the frogs sing. I wanted to listen real hard and see if I could hear Wilbur singing.
Dad came to tuck me in and asked if I was still afraid of the frogs. I shook my head and smiled and said, “Not anymore. I like to hear the frogs sing now. I’m listening to see if I can hear Wilbur.”
He smiled and said, “Heavenly Father answered your prayer.”
“How did He do that?” I asked.
“Well, you asked Him to help you to not be afraid. He helped you find Wilbur, and if you hadn’t found Wilbur and seen what was making all that noise, you might still be afraid.”
I could see that Dad was right. I knelt by my bed and thanked Heavenly Father for Wilbur and for all of the other frogs that were singing by the river. As I was saying my prayers, I thought I heard Wilbur singing best of all.

One such pioneer who was guided by the “fire of the covenant” was Stillman Pond. He and his family were among the last to leave Nauvoo in September 1846. Having already endured much persecution and harassment from the enemies of the Church, the Pond family was ultimately driven from their Nauvoo home at the point of a bayonet. Without adequate preparation for their trek, they were left without proper food, clothing, and shelter. Their trek across Iowa to Winter Quarters was fraught with almost unimaginable suffering and heartache.

Snow came early to the Iowa territory that year, making travel extremely difficult. Weakened from trudging through the deep snow, Stillman’s pregnant wife, Maria, who had already been afflicted with consumption, then contracted malaria. She, along with every member of her family, suffered greatly from this sickness. Bowed down with grief and aching from the pain and fever of malaria, Maria could no longer walk. Amidst these grim circumstances she gave birth to twin boys who were named Joseph and Hyrum. They both died only a few days later. The deaths of these children coming across the plains from Nauvoo to Winter Quarters were only the beginning of the sacrifice and trials of Stillman Pond.

With all of the members of the Pond family sick with malaria, Stillman, who was unable to walk or even sit up, lay on his stomach in the bed of his wagon. Bracing himself with one arm and extending his other over the dashboard to hold the reins, he drove his team the last 150 miles. On October 16, 1846, they arrived at Winter Quarters. During the winter there the Pond family continued to suffer. In the space of five days, three more children died. A sixth died a few weeks later:

Laura Jane Pond, age 14, died of “chills and fever” on December 2, 1846. Harriet M. Pond, age 11, died “with chills” on December 4. Abigail A. Pond, age 18, died “with chills” on December 7. Lyman Pond, age 6, died with “chills and fever” on January 15, 1847.

Having survived the heartache of burying all of her children, the hardships of the trek across Iowa, and the hunger and privations of a long, hard winter, Stillman’s beloved wife, Maria, finally succumbed to her sicknesses on May 17 at Winter Quarters. Yet despite all this, Stillman Pond journeyed onward in the pioneer company led by Elder John Taylor, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in the early fall of 1847. His testimony of the gospel, his faith in the Lord, and the fire of the covenant that burned in his soul gave him the strength to go on. “I am perfectly satisfied with the authorities of the Church,” he wrote in February 1846, “and consider it my indispensable duty to give heed to all things.”

I was raised a deeply devout Roman Catholic, going to church every day. Studying the Bible was a normal every day event which I loved. My testimony of Jesus Christ was well established. He was my cornerstone, my iron rod. I had never visited any other church and was unfamiliar with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I often prayed that I could be a good Christian example to my children.
During one of my prayer sessions, I experienced a very personal and sacred spiritual encounter. I shared this encounter with a local parish priest and was told these things don’t happen today, so I kept this to myself for many years. But it became foundational to my testimony.
When I moved to Utah, I became involved in the local Catholic community. I didn’t drive back then, so my husband would take me and the children. One Sunday we were running late for church and took a different route. On this route, we passed a building with a sign which read: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” Immediately, a presence came over me. Even though we were going about fifty miles, it felt like time had stood still. After mass, I mentioned to the parish priest that I saw a sign that said “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints”. I expressed an appreciation for the name and asked, since we are the true church, why aren’t Catholics called this? He admonished me not to have anything to do with Mormons. This was the first time I had heard this word but the seed had been planted.
Some time later, there was a knock on my door. I assumed they were Jehovah Witnesses so I told them I wasn’t interested and they started to walk away. For some reason I called them back and asked them who they were. They mentioned they were members of “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” This captured my attention, and I invited them in. They left me a Book of Mormon which began a friendship with two ladies who were members of the local Relief Society.
A few months later, my husband was asked to work on Sundays so I had no way of getting to my local church. Around the same time, my children began to interact with other children in the neighbourhood, which led to me being invited to activities at their local church. On my first visit to my neighbour‘s church, they were showing a film of Joseph Smith‘s first vision. It was new to me, but when it came to the part he was bound, from my own experience years before, I knew this to be true.
As mentioned I wanted my children to know of Jesus as I knew of him, so I started to attend the Sunday services. I grew up in a Latin based church service where prayers and hymns were all in Latin, so this was the first time I had ever entered another church and heard hymns in English. I remember the first hymn I heard was “O my Father Thou That Dwellest.” It filled me with awe and is now my favourite hymn.
Thereafter, I was invited to the Relief Society and then my baptism came around. I think the whole stake came out to see this young Scottish girl being baptised in Utah. I have since held many positions in the church, such as Relief Society President, Primary President, Stake Primary President, and Sunday school teacher. Currently, I am in charge of Public Relations and Communications for the Greenock Branch.

Joseph’s own life united temple and school. During the fall of 1835 and the winter of 1836, while engrossed in final preparations for the house of the Lord in Kirtland, Joseph read and studied as never before, including at the Kirtland Hebrew School, where he was a strong and diligent student.

Joseph’s journal for November 11, 1835, records: “Attended school again, during school Hours.” And then: “Returned home and spent the evening, around my fire-side, teaching my family the science of grammar.” [40]

The next day, Joseph instructed Church leaders regarding the endowment of power, the washing of feet, and the solemn assembly. “You need an endowment brethren,” he said, “that you may be prepared and able to overcome all things.” “All who are prepared,” he added, “and are sufficiently pure to abide the presence of the Savior will see him in the solemn assembly.” A staggering promise. Then, the very next day: “Attended school during school hours.” [41]

And so it went throughout that memorable winter—stunning heavenly disclosures and stirring prophetic teachings, interwoven with the joyful labor of language study.

On November 20, 1835, Oliver Cowdery returned to Kirtland from a trip to New York. He brought with him, Joseph recorded, “a quantity of Hebrew books for the benefit of the school, he presented me with a Hebrew Bible, lexicon, and grammar, also a Greek lexicon and Webster’s English lexicon.” [42]

Joseph was delighted. He could hardly wait to dig in. He spent the next day, he said, “examining my books and studying the Hebrew alphabet.” [43] On December 23, Joseph’s 30th birthday, he celebrated “in the forenoon at home studying the Greek language.” [44]

Joseph clearly relished his studies. “My soul delights in reading the word of the Lord in the original,” he enthused, “and I am determined to pursue the study of languages until I shall become master of them, if I am permitted to live long enough.” [45]

When, at last, the day of dedication arrived on March 27, 1836, Joseph offered the prayer whose text he had previously received by revelation. [46] Two days later, Joseph “attended school” for the Hebrew class’s final session. That evening, the Saints gathered in the house of the Lord for sacred ordinances. “The Holy Spirit rested down upon us,” Joseph recorded, “and we continued in the Lord’s house all night, prophesying and giving glory to God.” [47] Five days later, on Easter Sunday, April 3, Joseph and Oliver Cowdery saw the resurrected Savior and received keys of power from Moses, Elias, and Elijah.

All of this points to an intriguing lesson about preparing to receive revelation. Joseph spent his time, not in ascetic contemplation, but in collective learning. He coupled quiet prayer with diligent study. He united temple and school.

Returning from a mission to Hawaii at the age of eighteen, Joseph F. Smith was stopped by drunken men threatening to kill any Mormon they could find. “Are you a ‘Mormon’?” one man demanded of Joseph F. in a loud, angry voice. Without hesitating, Joseph F. looked the man in the eyes and answered boldly, “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through!” Surprised, the man took Joseph F.’s hand and said, “Well, you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” Then he and the other men rode off.

“There’s the steeple!” Natalie called out. She loved going to church. Sunday was her favorite day of the week, except for one thing—she was sad that her brother, Michael, chose not to go to church with the rest of the family.
As Natalie sat quietly during sacrament meeting, she thought about Michael. When he used to come to church, Natalie liked to sit next to him while she looked at her picture books about Jesus. After sacrament meeting, Michael would take her hand and walk her to Primary. “See you later, Sis,” he would always say. But Michael hadn’t been to church in a long time.
Natalie wished she could tie him up with her jump rope and pull him to church in her little red wagon, but she knew he wouldn’t like that. What else could she do?
In Primary, Sister Chang greeted her class cheerfully. “I am so glad you are all here today,” she said. “It makes me happy to see your smiling faces. But who is missing?”
Natalie looked around the room. She raised her hand. “Jed,” she called out. “Jed isn’t here today.”
“You are right,” Sister Chang said. “Jed wasn’t here last week either.”
“Maybe he’s sick,” Lisa suggested.
“Maybe he’s on a trip,” Boyd said.
“Maybe he just didn’t want to come,” Natalie said quietly.
“We need to let him know we love him and miss him when he’s gone,” Sister Chang said.
“How can we do that?” Natalie asked.
“We’ll tell him,” Sister Chang said. “Little things can often make a big difference. I made a card for you to sign, and you can each draw a special picture for Jed.”
Natalie decided to draw a picture of a mountain and trees because she knew that Jed liked the outdoors. And then Natalie asked her teacher if she could draw another picture to take home.
When Natalie got home from church, she found Michael in his room listening to music. “Hi, Sis,” he greeted her. “What’s up?”
Natalie handed him a folded piece of paper. “I made you a card.”
“For me?” Michael smiled. “Why? It’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Sister Chang helped me write the inside. It says, ‘I miss you when you don’t come to church with us. I love you.’ And I signed my name.”
“Thanks,” Michael said softly. “It’s a nice card. You did a good job.”
“You’re welcome.” Natalie gave her brother a hug and hurried off to help Mom fix dinner. She felt happy inside. She loved her brother so much, and now he knew it too.
The following Sunday, Natalie was so excited when Michael decided to go to church. She held his hand as they entered the chapel. She sat quietly next to him during the service. Natalie saw Jed sitting two rows up and gave him a little wave.
Natalie loved going to church, especially when all her friends and family were there. She decided that from now on, if she missed someone, she would say so, because sometimes little things can make a big difference.

A short time ago I toured with the president of the Alaska-British Columbia Mission. His daughter in high school had been successful in converting one of her chums, so she told her father she wanted to spend her summer vacation in the mission field. He sent her up to Anchorage to labor with a lady missionary, and he and I were there to attend a baptismal service when eleven people were baptized. Nine of them were the converts of this girl and her companion. The daughter came up to me with tears running down her cheeks and said, “Oh, Brother Richards, I have never been so happy in all my life.”

On a Sunday morning in March 2003, I awoke and got ready and went to church with my family, just as I would on any other Sunday. We sat together in sacrament meeting, Sister Crawford expecting our fourth child. I remember looking at my little family and wondering what their lives would be like without me. I was comforted knowing that Cheryl is a strong, righteous, resilient mother.
After sacrament meeting, I went home and took a nap. I needed to be well rested for work that evening. Normally I loved my job, but I was not looking forward to work on this day. A few hours later, I was at the controls of a stealth bomber loaded with 32,000 pounds of guided weapons, headed to war.
We departed from our base in Missouri, the heartland of America. Our destination: Baghdad, Iraq. We had been briefed on the dangers of flying into Iraqi defenses. They were equipped with anti-aircraft radar, missiles, and artillery. Baghdad is a long flight from Missouri. I had a lot of time to think about things on the way there.
I thought about my family. I carried this photo of us in my breast pocket as a reminder of why I served in the military. In case I got shot down, my plan was to show the Iraqis this photo so they would know I was a normal person, just like them. What was I thinking? I'm not sure this particular photo was a good choice to show that we are "normal," but I love it.
I thought about my patriarchal blessing, which contained these words:
"In this life it sometimes becomes necessary to serve in the armed forces. Should this calling come to you, accept it and serve with gladness and strength... The Lord will protect you from danger and harm if you are willing to accept His inspiration and guidance in your life, so keep the commandments."
I hoped that I had lived worthy to claim that promise.
Baghdad's air defenses weren't the only challenges we had to face during our mission. In order to reach our target, we had to refuel in midair.
This activity requires great skill and more than a little nerve as you maneuver a massive aircraft to within a few feet of another massive aircraft and connect to a refueling boom while flying at hundreds of miles per hour, thousands of feet in the air. During daylight it is difficult enough. On this night, if I recall correctly, it was dark, we were in the clouds, and we faced turbulence. We had no choice but to persevere if we were to accomplish our mission. That in-flight refueling was only one of five we would need to complete before our mission was accomplished.
At last we reached Iraq. We slipped through enemy air defenses apparently undetected and released our weapons on time, on target.
After leaving Baghdad, we still had a harrowing journey ahead of us—the return home was about as long as the flight there, only now we would feel the effects of our long flight even more. There was a danger that while one pilot rested, the pilot flying would fall asleep due to exhaustion. We droned on through the night and into the next day. Nearly 36 hours after we departed, we arrived safely home, exhausted and relieved.

Things were all set for a really fun weekend. My friend Tara and I had set up a girls-ask group date with some young men in our stake, and we were excited. A popular movie had just been released from theaters to DVD, and we were going to watch it all together at a friend’s house.
And then Nathan, my date, called.
“You know, Jennifer,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should do something else tonight.”
A panicky feeling gripped my chest. Was Nathan backing out of the date?
“Umm, what do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well,” he continued, “I think that movie is just going to be watching hours of battles. Could we do something else instead?”
The panicky feeling left as I realized he was right. The movie, even though it was popular and didn’t have a bad rating, did have a lot of violence in it.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “You got it.”
I called Tara, and we decided to have a board game night instead. It ended up being much more fun and social than staring at the TV for a couple of hours.
I feel so grateful that Nathan was willing to tell me how he really felt about the movie. His high standards were a great example to me and pushed my standards even higher. Since then, I’ve avoided a lot of other movies that, when I stop and think about it, aren’t very uplifting or fun, even if the rating isn’t that bad or if they’re really popular. I also never felt offended that Nathan didn’t like our original activity. That has given me the strength to speak up in situations when my standards are at stake. Nathan didn’t offend anyone by being honest about his feelings, and so I learned that, even if some people do take offense, I shouldn’t worry about standing up for my values either.