Gospel Story Finder

While I am over in England, let me tell you about Lady Spenz. Lady Spenz had her title by virtue of her husband having been a member of the House of Parliament in England. She had a rather large home, her husband was deceased, and she decided to let out some of the downstairs apartments so that she might receive additional income. Along came two Mormon missionaries to rent the room, and they decided that Lady Spenz should have a touch of the gospel. They started teaching her; and after about the third discussion, on a night so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, she was reading in her living room and she could hear through the floorboards the two missionaries downstairs praying, never dreaming for a moment that Lady Spenz was listening. The missionaries prayed, “Heavenly Father, please bless Lady Spenz that she might recognize the truth that we are trying to give her, that she might be acted upon by the gift of the Holy Ghost, that she might come into the waters of baptism, that she might be united with her wonderful husband some day.” Well, you can guess the effect of that prayer on this lovely lady, who is now a member of this Church and who thanks the Mormon missionaries for coming into her home and bringing that kind of a blessing.

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.
That is how everything has become since Steve’s family moved a year ago into their little log house in the wilds near Fairbanks. There are six other families within five miles in the woods where they live, but it is more than 30 miles into town and about 15 miles to the Eielson Air Force Base. They have no electricity or telephone, their close neighbors are the lynx, fox, and bear, and their television set is the view from their window of the Alaska Mountain Range shrouded by dense spruce forests. Life is simple.
But hewn down to its basic elements, life also seems richer. The isolation in the harsh climate has brought the family closer than ever before. Working together, playing together, worshiping together—they share more of life than ever before.
“B.J., Steve, Susan, David, Danny, Becky, Julie, Jesse … time for breakfast,” comes the call from the kitchen every morning. (Rachael is already in the high chair and Susie is away at college.) Soon the sounds of padding feet fill the kitchen, and everyone is poised for the new day. Over hot cakes the daily planning session begins. There is school for Steve and the little ones, and work for Dad at the air force base. There is work for 19-year-old B.J. (Billie Joe) and home Primary for both her and Mom in the afternoon. Then there is dinner together and home evening that night.
And there are always plenty of chores for everyone. Most of the summer is spent getting ready for the winter. And most of the winter is spent coping with the cold that can freeze bare flesh in less than a minute and the darkness that can linger into depression. With ten children and no electricity, the chores are given a twist of creativity.
The five-mile stretch of dirt road that leads to the highway is not maintained by the state, so one of Steve’s jobs is to help the men in the neighborhood pack down the snow during the winter by the use of a flat device called a drag. It seems that this always needs to be done at the least convenient times, such as when Mom is in labor or when it is time to go to church.
Another of Steve’s jobs is to keep the car from freezing up at night. “We had one garage, not insulated or anything, just plywood sides, with a wood stove in it,” he explained. “We would just pull the car in there every night, and I’d build a fire. I had to put enough wood in there so the fire would last all night. The car was only frozen up one time the whole winter.” His brown eyes glisten with pride he knows is well-earned.
Steve’s expertise with wood burning stoves has unexpectedly come in handy at other times too. When the kitchen stove was on the blink one morning, he stoked up the basement stove so his mother and sisters, huddling in their parkas, could cook hotcakes for the family in the pitch black 32-degree basement air. Some of the younger brothers and sisters were assigned to run the hotcakes upstairs before the chill reached through and through.
As the days wear on, it seems that work has a way of turning into fun for the Crandall family. Family home evening, a chore for many families, is as easy as the summer rain on the flower-dotted flat lands for Steve’s family.
One night when it was time for home evening, Steve suggested, “Let’s do something exciting tonight—like kickball or something.”
So Becky and Julie went outside to set up bases while the older girls stayed to clean up the dinner dishes. It wasn’t long before eight-year-old Becky flew through the door, her face ashen and her voice trembling in fright. “There’s a bear out there! There’s a bear out there!”
Suddenly everyone was bumping shoulders on the porch trying to catch a good view of the bear. There he was, foraging through the bushes, pausing for a moment to watch the commotion on the Crandalls’ porch. Suddenly, a neighbor pointed his rifle out the side window and fired at the bear several times. The injured bear began to lumber away. Quickly Dad and Steve grabbed their guns to help out. “You don’t leave a wounded bear up here. They can get vicious,” Dad explained.
They never caught the bear that night. But when Mom asked, “Was that enough excitement for you, Steve?” laughter filled the tiny house.
Excitement and laughter seldom leave Steve’s house. The Crandalls live life to the fullest, with an intensity that shows even in their recreation. Steve and 11-year-old Danny once entered a local 26-mile marathon cross-country race. When Steve gave out early and quit the race, Danny kept going. He finished third in his category, the youngest of the contestants. “One of us had to finish,” he said with his head bowed.
By far, Church work is given the most serious attention by the Crandalls. Everyone has at least one Church job, and so the gospel is a cooperative effort. With Dad in the branch presidency, Mom a teacher in the Relief Society, B.J. a teacher in the Primary, and Steve a member of the planning committee for the all-Alaska youth conference, the family car is kept hopping. During spring breakup, when the snow melts and the road to the highway becomes as muddy as the sludge from a gold miner’s pan, attending church services becomes a challenge. The four-wheel drive jeep is the only vehicle that can navigate the muddy stretches of road to the air force base chapel.
“There’s the whole family in that little bitty 1943 jeep,” Mom laughs. “We all get into our grubs; everybody climbs into the jeep. We strap a suitcase full of our good clothes onto the hood along with Daddy’s briefcase, and off we go to church. It’s funny!”
Church meetings are worth the effort, though. The closeness of the Crandalls seems to be shared by other families in the branch. And it spills over into the greater branch family. A willing hand is always outstretched. Making the most of each moment is their byword. One day Steve forgot his shirt for meeting, so another boy loaned him one of his. Although two of Steve could have fit into the shirt, one very relieved Steve could attend his meetings. B.J. tells of one experience she had with the Young Adults in the area:
“One night after I had not been to Young Adults for three weeks, they all came to my house for a party!” She shook her head in wonder.
The pioneer spirit shows in little ways. At dances, beneath the elegant gowns, girls wear mukluks, sealskin boots. After a shipment of fabric comes into the general store, everyone shows up at church and school with shirts, dresses, and skirts of the same fabric. And this spirit shows in big ways, too. When the hay is ready to harvest, everyone comes to help. Eggs and milk are shared by all.
“The whole branch is close.” Dad sums it up well. With little else to hold onto, that gospel love is like an iron rod in the vast wilderness. “The people up here have to live like the Mormon pioneers. They share. They work together,” Dad explains.
Steve agrees. His life is painted in pioneer panorama, but with strokes that show a Master’s gentle touch. Last year when winter was fierce, the whole family gathered in the front room, some of the smaller members in Dad’s arms. They read from the scriptures by the flickering light of kerosene lamps. Through the front window, Steve could see the bright lights of the Aurora Borealis dancing silent approval over the warm scene. This is life at its best—a candle on a very cold hillside.

Toby curled himself around his mother’s feet on the kitchen floor and began to purr. “Look, Mommy! I’m a kitty,” he said.
Mommy stirred sugar and salt into a big bowl of hot milk on the table and smiled. “Oh, you’re a kitty, are you?” She bent over and patted his head. Toby gave a contented meow. The yeast in a cup with warm water had risen to the top in a bubbly foam. Mommy tested the milk to make sure that it was cool enough, then poured the yeast and a small amount of oil into the bowl.
When Mommy pulled her feet out from under Toby and went to the cupboard for the sifter, Toby slithered up onto a kitchen chair. “Look, Mommy! I’m a snake,” he hissed. He weaved and bobbed as he watched her mix the fine brown flour into the liquid in the bowl. When the dough became stiff enough to handle, Mommy dumped it onto the clean, flour-dusted table and began to knead it with her hands. Toby loved to watch this part, and he flicked his tongue and rattled his tail as he watched.
Next, Mommy put the dough back into the bowl and covered it with a red-checkered cloth. “Time to feed the baby, Mr. Snake,” she told Toby, and they went into the baby’s room. Mommy sat in the rocking chair and softly hummed as she fed Toby’s baby sister.
Toby sat on the floor and practiced wiggling his nose. “Look, Mommy! I’m a mouse,” he squeaked, and the big rocking chair creaked back at him.
“Can you be a very quiet mouse so the baby can go to sleep?” Mommy asked.
Toby nodded and decided to become a mouse statue. He held very still and tried not to squeak or wiggle as Mommy gently laid the baby in the crib and tucked the soft blankets around her. Toby and Mommy tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a bunny,” Toby said with a little hop. As he hopped into the kitchen, he noticed that the dough had rounded up over the top of the bowl and was peeking out from under the cloth. Mommy tipped the dough out onto the table and punched it down, working it between her hands and the table. Toby’s bunny ears pricked up, and he giggled as the bubbles in the dough popped and burped at him.
When the dough was smooth and round, Mommy cut it into four parts and shaped each part into a loaf. She put them into pans and set them on the stove to rise again.
Toby hopped into his bedroom, and when he came out again, he had his white blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Look, Mommy! I’m an angel,” he said, pulling his angel robe more tightly around himself.
“It’s naptime for all sleepy little angels,” Mommy said. Toby reverently floated into his room and onto his bed. Mommy kissed his cheek and tucked his angel robe up under his chin. Toby laid his head on a fluffy cloud pillow and drifted off to sleep.
When he woke up, a wonderful smell was tickling his nose. He jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. Four golden brown loaves of bread were sitting on racks on the kitchen table. Toby watched as Mommy sliced a big piece off the end of one loaf. She spread butter and honey over the warm slice of bread and handed it to Toby.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a little boy, now,” Toby said as he took a big bite. “I’m glad Heavenly Father sent you to be my little boy,” Mommy said.
Toby licked the melted honey and butter that ran down his fingers. “Me, too!” he said happily.

I was a senior in high school and had joined the cross-country team mainly to get in shape for track and field events that took place later in the year. As part of our training, every morning before school our coach would have us run to his home, which was four miles from the school, and then run back again.
Several times after having made the eight-mile run my coach asked me if I’d “found my second wind yet?”
I’d always ask, out of breath, “What’s a second wind?”
To which he would reply, “You’ll know it when you find it.”
After several weeks of arduous training we finally had our first cross-country meet. It was well over eight miles long, with no stops and only an orange cone indicating the halfway mark. Knowing how difficult the last four miles had been for me every morning, I began to doubt myself even before the race began. But out of respect for my coach and with my competitive spirit, I positioned myself at the starting line.
The gun went off and we were on our way, trying to pace ourselves so we would have enough energy to finish. As usual, I could feel the burn and fatigue starting to build up with every stride I was taking. Well into the race I wobbled around a corner looking up a hill that seemed to be Mount Everest, only to see the halfway sign marked by the orange cone. I was exhausted. By this time I was feeling the temptation to quit. But relying on competitive drive still left in me, I made it to the top, with a weak, staggering run.
Suddenly something happened that I can’t explain fully. As I reached the crest of the hill, the words of my coach came to my mind, “Hey, Marler, have you found your second wind yet?”
At that moment, the question and the answer, “You’ll know it when you find it,” all came to light. As the burn, aches, and pains flooded through my body, as I was gasping for every breath, my whole body suddenly felt as if I had never started the race. I felt as if I was at the starting line, waiting for the gun to go off. I knew for the first time what a second wind was. I was able to finish the race and assist our team in winning the overall competition.
After the race I found my coach, and seeing the expression on my face, he said, “You found your second wind, didn’t you, Marler?” I will never forget the moment or the feeling I had. I know that anyone else who has experienced a second wind during a race can relate and will know what I have experienced.

GEELONG—Anthony George, 17, lives in this seaside town southwest of Melbourne. “I actually got my testimony from attending the temple,” he says. “Before I started going to the temple, I didn’t really have much of a testimony. I just went along with everyone.” Then, a few weeks before his third trip to the temple, Anthony’s Sunday School teacher told the class that everyone needs a testimony. “So I started thinking about that.”
At the Sydney Temple a few weeks later, Anthony was in the font. “I had already been baptized a few times, and they said the baptismal prayer and I was baptized again. I just had this really good feeling like the person was grateful for what I had done for him. I just felt that this was the right thing, and that going to church was the right thing.” Everything just came together “like a jigsaw puzzle the Spirit put together for me.”

I wish every adult leader in the Church could have been in attendance to share the spirit of that testimony meeting. With deep emotion, one lovely girl spoke of her reaction when it was discovered that her father had cancer. How she prayed and prayed that he be healed, then came to the realization that her prayers were selfish—that our loving Father in heaven was in control and that she should submit to his will. She evidenced a very mature outlook on life, something that some of us as adults never experience in a lifetime of living.

At the university where I used to study, there was a young man who persecuted me because I am a member of the Church. He always wanted to contend, so I just tried to avoid him. Then one day I bore my testimony to him, and he quit persecuting me. We should always stay firm and remember how our testimonies were gained. We should react with self-control so the Holy Spirit may always be with us and strengthen us, no matter what others may say or think. We should pray for those people so that someday they may receive Jesus Christ.
Brezka E., age 21, Valparaíso, Chile

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow probably understood this when he penned the poem “Christmas Bells” that would be set to music and become a favorite Christmas carol—the refrain of which I mentioned earlier.

Mr. Longfellow used church bells ringing on Christmas Day as the setting for a poem he wrote during the Civil War. The fighting had been fierce and touched the lives of the Longfellow family personally. Mr. Longfellow’s son Charles, who had enlisted in the Union Army at 17 years of age, had arrived home about two weeks prior to Christmas 1863 after being critically injured in a battle.6 While Charles eventually recovered from his wounds, his father was likely concerned about the long-term health of his son and of his country. In addition to these concerns, Mr. Longfellow continued to feel the grave loss of his beloved wife, Francis Appleton Longfellow, also known as Fanny. In 1861, the same year the Civil War broke out, Fanny died from injuries she sustained when her light summer dress ignited in their home. The light weight of the fabric and the hoops she wore allowed ample oxygen to feed the flames, and Mrs. Longfellow was quickly engulfed. Mr. Longfellow attempted to extinguish the fire and was himself burned in the process. With her death he was left to raise five children and manage the affairs of his home as a single parent.7 The death of his wife and his son’s critical injuries were not the only tragedies in Mr. Longfellow’s life. Fanny was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s second wife, and together they had a daughter also named Frances who died when she was 17 months old.8 His first wife, Mary Potter Longfellow, died just over a month after she miscarried during her sixth month of pregnancy.9 This was a man who had every reason to pity himself and feel cranky about his condition, and yet he declared in beautiful verse:

Recently I learned of a fearless young Laurel. She was invited to participate in a statewide competition for her high school on the same evening she had committed to participate in a stake Relief Society meeting. When she realized the conflict and explained to competition officials that she would need to leave the competition early to attend an important meeting, she was told she would be disqualified if she did so.
What did this latter-day Laurel do? She kept her commitment to participate in the Relief Society meeting. As promised, she was disqualified from the statewide competition. When asked about her decision, she replied simply, “Well, the Church is more important, isn’t it?”

One day during my senior year in high school, a strong feeling came over me that my grandfather wanted to see me. So after school I got a notebook from my locker and walked over to Uncle Jacob Cline’s house, where grandpa had been staying since grandma’s death.
When I arrived, grandpa was sitting up in bed. “Come in, Ray,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He wanted to tell me the history of his family, and I was to write the information down. I knew then why I had brought my notebook along with me. Over the next hour, he told me the history of his family four-generations back—names, dates, places, and stories. When he finished, he laid his hand on my shoulder and said very quietly: “Ray, I give unto you a charge to preserve this information, for someday you will need it. And when that day arrives, you will hear my voice and know now is the time, and this is the reason.”
I felt a shiver go down my spine and a warm feeling in my chest as my eyes remained riveted to the penetrating eyes of grandpa. I promised I would, even though I had no idea why I was writing down or preserving the information. Grandpa died two weeks later.

Shannon loved her family’s Christmas Eve traditions. First they ate fried rice and dumplings at their favorite Chinese restaurant. Then they drove around the city to look at the Christmas lights. When they got home, they read the Christmas story from the Bible together. And before bed, they got to open one present each. It was Shannon’s favorite night of the year. She could hardly wait!

Until Mom made an announcement.

“We’re having a special Christmas Eve guest this year. Remember Ms. Reed?”

Shannon groaned. “The neighbor Dad invited to church last week?”

“That’s right. Dad’s picking her up now.”

Shannon plopped into a chair. How could she relax and have fun with a stranger around? Christmas Eve was ruined! Well, Ms. Reed hadn’t come to church when Dad invited her. Maybe she wouldn’t come this time either.

But when Dad came through the door, the “special guest” was with him. Ms. Reed looked tired and kind of sad. Shannon said hello. But she didn’t want to say anything else. At dinner she just focused on her food while Mom and Dad chatted with Ms. Reed.

“Have you ever taken dance lessons?” asked a soft voice. Shannon saw that Ms. Reed was waiting for her to answer. She nodded and looked back down at her plate.

“Me too,” said Ms. Reed, her voice still quiet. “What’s your favorite dance style?”

Shannon shrugged, poking at a dumpling with her chopsticks.

“I love jazz,” Ms. Reed said. “I was on a dance team in college. One year we traveled all over Europe. It was amazing.”

Shannon looked up. That did sound amazing.

“What else do you like?” asked Shannon.

Ms. Reed gave a small smile. “Playing the piano. And math.”

Shannon’s eyes got big. “Really? Math is my favorite subject!”

Shannon talked to Ms. Reed for the rest of dinner. She found out that Ms. Reed had a college degree in math and was studying to become a math professor when she met her husband. He had made some bad choices and was now in prison.

After dinner Shannon sat by Ms. Reed while they drove around to look at the Christmas lights. And when they read the Christmas story, she shared her scriptures with Ms. Reed so she could follow along.

Soon it was time to open presents. Shannon got some cozy purple pajamas. She couldn’t wait to put them on! But she felt a little bad that Ms. Reed didn’t have a present.

Just then Mom handed a gift to Ms. Reed. Ms. Reed smiled shyly and unwrapped a pair of dark blue socks. She looked up at Mom with watery eyes. “Thank you. You really didn’t need to get me anything.”

Shannon went to her bedroom and put on her new pajamas. She couldn’t stop thinking about Ms. Reed. She seemed so grateful to get socks for Christmas!

As Shannon slipped her own fuzzy socks on, she heard beautiful music begin to play. She ran downstairs to find Mom and Dad singing carols while Ms. Reed played the piano. Shannon joined in. As she sang, a warm feeling grew in her heart. I guess it’s not so bad to have a guest on Christmas Eve, she thought.

On Sunday, Ms. Reed came to church and sat with Shannon’s family during sacrament meeting. She looked really happy. Shannon smiled as she shared her hymnbook with Ms. Reed. Maybe it was time to add a new Christmas Eve tradition.

Three weeks ago I was at a stake conference in the lovely little mountain community of Prescott, Arizona. Following the delightful events of that weekend, a sister silently slipped me a note as she and others came by to shake hands and say good-bye. With some hesitation I share a portion of it with you this morning. Please focus on the doctrine this sister teaches, not the participants in the exchange.
“Dear Elder Holland, thank you for the testimony you bore in this conference of the Savior and His love. Forty-one years ago I prayed earnestly to the Lord and told Him I wished I had lived on earth when the Apostles walked upon it, when there had been a true Church, and when Christ’s voice was still heard. Within a year of that prayer, Heavenly Father sent two LDS missionaries to me, and I found that all those hopes could be realized. Perhaps some hour when you are tired or troubled, this note will help you remember why hearing your voice and shaking your hand is so important to me and to millions just like me. Your sister in love and gratitude, Gloria Clements.”

I had been a missionary in Taiwan less than a month when my companion and I decided to go to the National Palace Museum on preparation day. While waiting at the bus stop, surrounded by a sea of people with black hair and dark eyes, I noticed an older Caucasian woman approach. What immediately caught my attention was that she simply radiated tranquility, serenity, and peace. She came to where my companion and I were standing, recognized from our name tags that we were missionaries, and began to chat.
The woman told us that she, too, was a missionary. In fact, she and her husband had been missionaries for a small Christian sect most of their lives. We boarded the bus and found seats together so we could continue our conversation. The woman related that she and her husband had been missionaries in mainland China during the Japanese invasion and occupation. They had been captured and held in a prisoner of war camp for five years. She described some of the conditions and their treatment in the camp. To say that those five years were difficult, even horrible, would be an understatement. One of the many stories she recounted was about the year her husband wanted to give her a special gift for Christmas. He took the rubber heel off his shoe and carefully scraped it on a stone until it became a makeshift rubber spatula for her to use in her cooking duties in the camp.
At the end of a most fascinating bus ride, it was time for us to part company. After describing a five-year ordeal that I could scarcely imagine, this beautiful, serene woman said, “You know, I wouldn’t have chosen all of the experiences I’ve had, but I wouldn’t trade any of them now.”

We are reminded of a young boy whose home was threatened by a severe storm. All day there had been reports of it on the radio and when evening came, he and his mother heard frightening warnings. The boy grew more and more upset. Suddenly, with a loud crash, the power failed. The radio became silent and the house was plunged into darkness. Then the mother heard muffled sobs from her young son.

“Try not to be upset,” she told him. “We’ve prepared as well as we could. After all, we are together, and there’s nothing more we can do about it.”

“I know,” he answered. “I know there’s nothing we can do about it. But isn’t there something more we can do about us?”

So in the darkness the mother and the boy knelt together and prayed for courage and comfort and safety. The storm did not cease, but a sweet peace came to them and stayed in their hearts until help arrived.

After the First Presidency’s announcement that the groundbreaking for the Neiafu Tonga Temple would be held on September 11, 2021, everyone who had a part to play went to work immediately under the wise guidance of our leaders from the Pacific Area and Church headquarters. It was not smooth sailing, but we witnessed the hand of the Almighty God guide us. From working on the building permit, to negotiating the environment internal assessment fees required by law, to the final preparation of the site, and to the actual temple groundbreaking ceremony, there were challenges.
An excerpt from a report prepared by Brother Tukia and Sister Linda Havea, the temple groundbreaking organizing committee coordinators, best explains this faith-promoting and miraculous sacred event.
On the night of September 10, 2021, the members were trying to complete the preparation of the temple groundbreaking site. It was raining nonstop. Even into the wee hours of the morning, it continued. However, the Saints awoke as this was the day that their forefathers had envisioned, prayed, and sacrificed for. They hurriedly flocked to Saineha, synonymous with the sun, a source of energy and spiritual healing. This was the site of the new temple.
What a great calming feeling. It was so serene that many wept silently in humility and gratitude. The Saints were seated to the right of the royal shelter. All members, choir and church leaders in the program were exposed to the elements with no shelter. The sound of the Tabernacle Choir certainly settled all despite the menacing and cumulonimbus clouds looming above. The program proceeded as planned without rain, for the clouds had receded. The wondrous moments occurred as Elder Kupu began the dedicatory prayer for the groundbreaking; the sun shone through, bathing the site with its brilliance, enhancing the Spirit that was abundant and prevailing. All wept for joy in admiration for the Omnipotent who had wondrously and gloriously revealed to ALL present that this groundbreaking was indeed, a heaven-sent undertaking!
Glory be to the Almighty, who is a “God of miracles.”5 I testify that if we allow Him, who is without beginning of days and end of years to prevail in our lives, we will continue to witness the workmanship of His hands,6 just as I have witnessed for myself His miraculous power and intervention during the sacred groundbreaking of the Neiafu Tonga Temple.

When our son Nicolás was five, he went to one of the best schools in our city. The school is run by another church. Nicolás was accepted even though he wasn’t a member of that church.
One day one of the school and church leaders led Nicolás out of the chapel to ask him why he didn’t participate in the school’s religion.
Nicolás said, “I’m a Latter-day Saint.”
The man tried to convince Nicolás to change his mind, saying that all churches have truth and believe in Jesus Christ.
Nicolás replied, “My parents teach me to respect your church, but I like being a Latter-day Saint.” The man accepted this answer and didn’t trouble him anymore.
Nicolás is a good example, even to his parents, of following the example of Jesus Christ.

A few years ago, I learned to index during a large indexing activity organized at the Les Abymes meetinghouse, led in part by Sabrina Bastien. It didn’t particularly captivate me as I found the documents difficult to read. Another time, I participated in an indexing activity on a Sunday with young people who had been called to serve as temple and family history consultants. I then began trying to do it alone at home, calling Sister Bastien for help when problems arose, and reading explanations on FamilySearch. I started indexing every Sunday afternoon. It became a way for me to help my family with their genealogy, as we are all part of our Heavenly Father’s family. If I find it easy to locate my close family, it’s because others have done work for me.
So, it’s my turn to return the favor. I noticed that by asking for help from our Heavenly Father, I could read certain writing more easily. This allowed me to have patience. During the first major COVID-19 lockdown, I indexed every day. And then every Sunday. I am happy to be able to help, through indexing, in bringing families together on both sides of the veil.
I used to index, but I stopped. This challenge encouraged me to resume service. [I found that] as soon as I engage in indexing, the Lord helps me stay calm, and patient, and I see difficult-to-decipher names light up. I feel joy in doing this service and want to do it over and over again. Thank you for the encouragement. Some of you (consultants) have the gift of motivating others to go further and contribute to this work. I am blessed and grateful to have you as brothers and sisters in Christ.

A whole week of vacation in Florida! Tom thought about all the things he wanted to do now that he was finally at Grandpa’s. He would lie on the beach, and he would go fishing. Maybe he would catch enough fish for dinner for the whole family! But something else excited Tom even more.
When he and Mom and Dad had driven in from the airport, they had passed a ballpark just a few blocks from Grandpa’s house. It was no ordinary Little League field like the one where Tom spent most of his free time back home. This was the spring training camp of his favorite baseball team. He had never been to one of their games before, because they were too far away, so he was hoping to see one of their exhibition games while he was at Grandpa’s. Grandpa had hardly gotten everyone settled in when Tom asked him if the team had started spring training yet.
“Just the pitchers and catchers are here so far,” Grandpa replied.
“That’s good enough for me,” Tom answered. “My favorite player is a pitcher, David Reaves. Do you think he would help me improve my pitch? I have a good straight ball, but not much else.”
“I doubt it,” Grandpa said. “He’ll be awfully busy getting in shape and practicing right now. But you can probably get his autograph—if you’re patient.”
Somewhat wistfully, Dad spoke up. “I sure wish I’d had the opportunity when I was a kid to meet my favorite baseball hero. Remember, Dad, the time we drove all the way to Boston to see Cal Herder pitch?”
“I’ll never forget it,” Grandpa answered. “You had a brand-new baseball, and you were hoping to get Herder’s autograph on it.”
Cal Herder. The name was familiar to Tom. “I remember hearing you talk about him, Dad. He was probably the best pitcher the team ever had, wasn’t he?”
“Sure was,” Dad replied, “but I never did get him to sign my baseball. There was a big crowd that day, and when the game was over, there was such a mob around him that I couldn’t get to him before we had to leave. I’d hoped to get one another day, but we never got there again.”
“Wasn’t he number eleven?” Grandpa asked. “As I recall, they retired his number when he stopped playing so that no other team member would ever wear it.”
“I think you’re right,” Dad agreed. “Well, Tom, maybe you’ll be luckier. David Reaves is number forty-three, isn’t he? By the way, I figured you’d want to go over to see the team, so I bought something for the occasion.” He handed Tom a small, cube-shaped box.
Tom quickly opened it. Inside it was a new baseball.
As he got dressed the next morning, Tom imagined David Reaves’s name autographed on the ball. Fishing and swimming could wait. The first thing he wanted to do was visit the training camp.
After breakfast Dad and Grandpa went out to work in the garden, and Tom ran down the street toward the ballpark. He was a little surprised that there weren’t many people at the training grounds, but then he realized that it was a school day for the kids who lived in the area. A few men Grandpa’s age stood along the fence talking to one another. Out on the field, catchers and pitchers were warming up. They weren’t wearing uniforms, so Tom couldn’t read their numbers. He recognized some of the players, though, but he didn’t see David Reaves.
He went over to the men along the fence, who were talking to a white-haired man in a coaching jacket. “Excuse me, but have any of you seen David Reaves?” Tom asked.
The men shook their heads, and the man in the coaching jacket replied, “He won’t be out here today, son. He broke his finger practicing yesterday, so he’ll be laid up for a while. But don’t worry. He’ll be in fine shape by the time the season opens.”
Tom couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh, no!” he moaned. “I sure hoped to see him.”
The man in the uniform smiled sympathetically, “I’m sorry. Say, I’d guess you’re a pretty good pitcher yourself, aren’t you?”
“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve pitched in Little League.”
“Why don’t you come over on this side of the fence and throw me a few balls? Maybe I can show you a pointer or two.”
Tom slipped through the gate, and the coach tossed him a ball. He made sure Tom was warmed up thoroughly, then asked him to throw his best pitch.
Tom pitched it fast and solid.
“Boy!” said one of the men leaning against the outside of the fence. “Maybe you’ll be scouting him for the team in a few years.”
Tom pitched a second ball and a third the same way.
“Not bad,” said the coach. “But let me show you how to get a little variety in your pitching so that the batter won’t know what you’re up to.” He showed Tom how to twist his wrist so that the ball would curve. “Now try it.” The ball went far outside, and the coach lunged for it. As the coach twisted around, Tom noticed the number on his jacket—number 11!
“Cal Herder was number 11 when he played for Boston!” Tom blurted out.
The coach looked surprised. “I’m Cal Herder,” he said. “I didn’t think a fellow your age would know about an old-timer like me.” He smiled.
“Oh, I sure do!” Tom replied. “You were my dad’s favorite player! But I thought you retired.”
“Nope,” said Mr. Herder. “Only from playing. Baseball’s my life, and I’ll coach just as long as they’ll let me.”
Tom threw a few more balls until he felt comfortable with the new pitch. Then Mr. Herder said, “I think I’d better go help some of the big guys.”
“Before you go, will you do me a favor?” Tom took the new baseball out of his pocket. “Will you autograph this for me, please?”
“Be glad to,” said the coach, and Tom watched with delight as the man wrote “Cal Herder” across the ball.
“Thanks a million for the help and the autograph!” Tom exclaimed.
“Glad to give you both,” Mr. Herder replied; then he trotted across the field.
Tom nearly flew back to his grandpa’s house. Dad and Grandpa were picking oranges off a tree in the front yard.
Dad looked at Tom and laughed. “From the grin on your face, I know what you have—a ball atographed by David Reaves.”
“Wrong, Dad. It’s something for you. Something you’ve been wanting for a long time.”

One day in my fourth-grade religion class in Jamaica, my teacher asked all the students to tell about their religious beliefs. Since I was the only Mormon in my prep school, I was chosen as the Mormon representative.
By the time it was my turn, my heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. I was never much of a public speaker anyway, and I didn’t have a loud voice. When I stood up, I just stared at the sea of eyes before me and tried to speak about some of our beliefs. I first spoke about the Word of Wisdom, then talked about the sacrament, about how we used bread and water to represent the Saviour’s body and blood when he died for us.
Before I could say another word, everyone started laughing at me. Tears stung my eyes as I wondered what I had said to make them laugh. I quickly wiped my eyes and went to my seat amidst the chants of “Bread and water, bread and water.” By the end of the day I was still being teased, so when it was time to go home I was overjoyed. I still don’t know why they decided to make fun of what I was saying.
When I got home, I took my mother’s huge Bible off the shelf and began looking at some of the pictures. As I was flipping a page, I glimpsed a scripture and quickly turned back to it. It was Matthew 10:32: “Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 10:32] As I read the words over and over, a feeling of peace washed over me as I realised it didn’t matter who laughed at me as long as I was doing what was right.

A few years ago, my wife and I had the sacred privilege of meeting with some faithful members of the Church in Mexico City. Many of them, either personally or through their loved ones, had endured indescribable trials, including kidnappings, homicides, and other heartbreaking tragedies.
As we looked into the faces of those Saints, we did not see anger, resentment, or a desire for revenge. Instead, we saw a quiet humility. Their countenances, though marked by sorrow, radiated a sincere longing for healing and comfort. Even though their hearts were broken by suffering, these Saints pressed forward with faith in Jesus Christ, choosing not to let their afflictions become gaps in their faith or cause instability in their testimony of the gospel.
At the conclusion of that sacred gathering, we greeted each one of them. Every handshake, every embrace became a quiet testimony that with the help of the Lord, we can choose to respond with temperance to the frustrations and challenges of life. Their quiet and unassuming example served as a tender invitation to walk the Savior’s path with temperance in all things. We felt as if we were in the presence of angels.