Gospel Story Finder

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to the family car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that following his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Melinda excitedly started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher just sadly stared at the floor of the car.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Melinda quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as the car turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know that the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen, Son,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell that you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get into trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person who ever lived on the earth was Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember that good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain and after telling us the truth? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time when we were reading from the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was really talking about in the parable about the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“Wow! I never thought about it that way before!”
“And,” said Mom, “remember when you got lost in the shopping mall last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling letting you know what to do was also the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him, even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I couldn’t remember it. Then I said a quick, little prayer, and suddenly my talk came back to me. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember things is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“Wow! Now I understand! All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!”

I was called to serve as a missionary and assigned to the Brazil Florianópolis Mission. I spent seven months there and ended up returning home early. When I was going home, I said a prayer asking Heavenly Father to not release me as a missionary. After I prayed, I felt the Spirit telling me that everything would be OK.
During my first week home, I trusted in the way I felt after I prayed at the airport. I began helping in the temple store. When I got the chance to meet with my stake president, he was very happy to hear of my service and said he wouldn’t release me. I was then assigned to be a service missionary in my home mission, the Recife Northeast Mission.
My service mission includes various assignments. During the week I help in the temple shop, the temple office, and the laundry room. There is always something to do at the temple—the missionaries never sit still there.
On Saturdays I help with institute. I participated in the institute’s missionary preparation class to share what I learned on the mission—it felt so good to share. I also help distribute food to the students after class.
In addition to my specific assignments, I use my social networks to share the gospel. I have a page I created when I was 17 years old that talks about the youth program.
The Lord has called us to serve. He knows us and our capabilities. Service missions are inspired by the Lord, and if you were assigned to serve one, it’s because the Lord needs your help in building His kingdom.
Even if I’m sad or facing difficulties, I really like it when I complete each month of my mission and can reflect on how I’ve grown and been strengthened during that time. I love my mission. It really is inspired by the Lord.

I was assigned to depict the Resurrection for the Coimbatore District open house during the Easter season. I was worried a bit about it, though I was pretty good at art and other work. My confidence was low since the suggested topic was on the final week of the Savior’s mortal life for me to portray. I was led by the Spirit to pray and ask for the Lord’s help and inspiration. This verse from the Holy Bible came to my mind as an answer to my prayer. It was Jeremiah 33:3.
I went on making objects like a crown of thorns, nails and whip, I pricked my finger many times while collecting the thorns. The pain I had and the few drops of blood which came out of my fingers made me to realize the love of our Heavenly Father, especially His unconditional love which is greater than anybody could give or receive on this earth. I felt so grateful that Christ had paid the penalty for my sins and has given me a chance to repent and to return to him. My daughter Saritha, along with the branch young single adults, helped me put our thoughts into reality.
On making the tomb to depict the Resurrection of Christ, I felt even happier that I can have my body restored to their proper and perfect frame [see Alma 40:23]. The Atonement helps me to prepare myself to meet God and the Resurrection helps me to live again. I know Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer. I love Him for who He is and what He did for me.

I was touched by the personal story told to me by Shawn, a former ministering brother to our family. Shawn grew up in a family of Church members who were less active, and during his youth he almost never attended church. After graduating from high school, he began attending the University of Utah and living the carefree lifestyle of a worldly young man. He was blessed to get a part-time job cleaning windows in an office building every night. The building was located on South Temple Street, right across from the Salt Lake Temple.

While he was cleaning the windowpanes, Shawn often had a view that looked down over the temple, and he started observing and paying attention to the individuals who came out of the temple. He became impressed with the countenances of those individuals. They were all dressed in their very best Sunday clothes and had peaceful expressions on their faces. They seemed filled with joy and with light. Often he asked himself what they were doing inside the temple that made them so joyful when they came out.

In contrast, Shawn got in the habit of going to a student nightclub several evenings each week. This club was not a calm or serene place. The ambiance was often rowdy, filled with the odor of alcohol and dominated by the boisterous conversations of its patrons. One evening while he was sitting at a table with friends, the group came up with the idea to pin a photograph of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. They started throwing darts at the image, accompanied by their insults and hateful words. Shawn began to feel extremely uncomfortable. Something inspired him to stand up and leave that unhallowed environment.

When his friends asked him why he was leaving, without hesitation he said, “Someday I hope to have a family. And if I am ever blessed to have daughters, I hope that none of them will ever marry guys like you!”

One more question came: “Where do you think you are going?”

He turned back to the group, pointed to the picture of the temple on the wall, and said, “I’m going there.”

Then he left the club while they hurled insults and jeers at him. When he got into his car, he took a deep breath, and at that very moment he knew exactly what he needed to do and where he needed to go. Within a few weeks he came back to the Church and decided to serve a full-time mission.

Today, Shawn is the happy father of a family deeply anchored in the gospel. When his friends ask what gave him the courage to leave his previous lifestyle, he replies without hesitation, “It is the Spirit that I felt when I looked at the house of the Lord and watched the dress and countenances of the people who came out of it.”15

Alana, 15, sat with her mother, Rachel, scanning a list of goals Alana could work on when Alana’s dad, Jeff, walked by. “Which of these should I do, Dad?” Alana asked.

Jeff looked at his watch, grimacing a little, and glanced at the list. “Um, this one looks easy. How about ‘Memorize a hymn’? You can get that one checked off fast. What else looks easy?”

Jeff paused. Something didn’t feel right, so he took the time to think about what it was.

I’m late, he thought. I just want to get this over with. I’m not very good at this parenting stuff. Hmmm. He looked at his daughter and then realized he felt other feelings too. Hope. Delight. This was not just about checking things off. This was about her growth. And this was a chance to connect with her. A smile spread across his face.

“Let’s stop and think about this,” he said. “What if we each write down what we have felt prompted to work on lately?”

“Um, OK,” said Alana. Rachel found pencils and paper, and they spent a few minutes thinking and writing.

“OK,” said Rachel. “Now what?”

Alana remembered, “I think we’re supposed to pray about it and then choose a goal and make a plan. But Dad, do you really think Heavenly Father cares about what goal I choose?”

Jeff reflected. “You have lots of good ideas, so maybe Heavenly Father just wants you to choose one to start with. But I am absolutely sure of one thing. Heavenly Father cares about you.”

“I know you want to use your gifts to make a difference,” added Rachel, “so if one of these is more important, I’m sure Heavenly Father will help you feel that.”

Alana smiled, then remembered, “President Nelson asked the youth to do a thorough assessment of our lives. Can I go get what I wrote?”

“Sure!” said Jeff, smiling. He looked at his watch again. “Oops, I’ve got to run. Find what you wrote and let’s talk at dinner, OK? I have some questions that might help.”

“Great!” said Alana, smiling. “And, Dad? Mom? Thanks.”

“No, bishop, I don’t think I’m going on a mission,” I said each time my bishop invited me to consider going on a mission.
When my family joined the Church, there were many things we had to learn and unlearn. As first-generation Church members, we had never before considered or discussed going on missions. The sacrifice seemed to be too great.
Still, I was an active member of the Church. I attended all my meetings and accepted responsibilities as they were extended. I was in my second year of studying accounting when the bishop called me to be the financial clerk.
One Wednesday I was faced with trying to find an error in the records. I felt helpless as I labored to find the three centavos’ difference between the Church’s and the bank’s records. The report was due the next day, and that deadline compounded my distress. I realized the only sensible thing to do was to ask for help.
I explained my predicament to the bishop. It surprised me when instead of immediately reviewing the report, he invited me to kneel and pray with him as we explained our problem to the Lord. When we got up from our knees, the bishop asked to see the report. Almost immediately and without using a calculator, he pointed to a column and said, “This is where your problem is.”
I totaled the numbers, and he was right. I felt I had just witnessed a miracle. My young and feeble testimony of the Church and Church leaders was strengthened.
While I was still caught up in this experience, the bishop asked, “Now are you going on a mission?”
This time, I said, “Yes.”
As I left the meetinghouse that night, I had with me all the missionary papers I needed to fill out. I was soon called to serve full time in the Philippines Baguio Mission.
It has been many years since that night and that answered prayer. After completing a two-year mission, I returned to school and obtained my college degree, four years behind most people my age. But if I had to do it over again, I would still choose to serve.
I’m thankful for a bishop who set a good example and obeyed a prompting to ask the right question at the right time. I’m also thankful to Heavenly Father. He not only helped me find the three centavos to reconcile my report, but He also blessed me with a wealth of missionary experiences without price.

Odds are there were probably a few of you who didn’t smile at all, and it makes me wonder why. Ask yourself, “Am I really a happy person?” If you are not and if it is difficult for you to smile, then analyze yourself. Know there is help available. Some of it can come from recognizing that difficulties are part of life. There are ups and there are downs. That fact reminds me of this little account shared by Elder Marion D. Hanks:
“A father [is] aboard an airplane on a short business trip. He has with him his five-year-old son and is almost wishing his son were not there because it is a very rough trip. There are downdrafts and updrafts and head winds alternating with tailwinds, and some passengers are feeling a bit queasy. Apprehensively, the father glances at his son and finds him grinning from ear to ear. ‘Dad,’ he says, ‘do they do this just to make it fun for the kids?’” (“Changing Channels,” Ensign, November 1990, 38).

It may be that some of us are still like these early Saints—we know no more concerning the destiny of the Lord’s church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. We don’t comprehend it. I certainly do not, but I am beginning to get the picture. I started to expand my vision when I was a young missionary serving in Italian-speaking Switzerland and in northern Italy. The food in Italy was wonderful, but the work was difficult, and rejection was common. Certainly larger numbers of people were joining the Church in Italy at the time in comparison to some other European countries, but it was not uncommon for missionaries to labor months upon months without witnessing the marvelous miracle of conversion. I was very pessimistic about the Church’s future in Italy. I knew, of course, of the phenomenal success of the Church in Mexico and in Central and South America, but I was deeply concerned about Europe. At the time the Eastern Bloc—the former Soviet Union and other eastern European countries—was closed to active missionary efforts.

In my lifetime I never imagined that China, Africa, and Greece would ever have congregations of Saints worshiping the Lord Jesus Christ. Yet, ironically, we still believed that the Second Coming was imminent. We simply did not comprehend the Lord’s timetable in this matter or the scope of His intended work during the time preceding the Second Coming.

Sometimes, in rather dramatic fashion, things change. The revelation on priesthood in 1978 and the demise of the Soviet Union dramatically changed the boundaries of our missionary fields of labor. Who has not been grateful for the expansion of the work among our brothers and sisters across Africa, eastern Europe, and elsewhere? Thrilling stories of a new generation of Mormon pioneers living in such places as Mongolia and India and in nations unfamiliar to myself such as the island chain of Kiribati are just as spiritually exciting and stimulating as almost any story from the first 100 years of the Restoration.

In 1997 I began a year of service at the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. During the following year we met with members of the Church from various nations of the earth and from various ethnicities living, working, and worshiping in the Holy Land. A real surprise to me was a branch composed of native members of the Church in Jordan and Israel—some returned missionaries and endowed in the temple. Since then, along with other professors—David Seely, Jim Toronto, and Paul Hoskisson—I have spoken to members of the Church who gather together weekly to worship the Lord in Lebanon and Cyprus.

It was in Cyprus that my story comes full circle. One of my assignments during my mission was in Lugano, a beautiful city by a lake in the mountains of southern Switzerland. It was a paradise: Swiss yogurt, Swiss chocolate, and heated buses in the winter! While there I became friends with Trafford and Fernanda Cole, members who lived in Italy. My companion, Elder Chris Meacham, and I spent long hours with them when they visited Lugano. Nearly a year later I was transferred to Padova, Italy, near Venice. There my companion Elder Steve Smoot and I worked closely with the Coles. Young and enthusiastic about the gospel, they both played important roles in the small branch of the Church. If they were ever pessimistic about the Church’s future in Italy, they never showed it.

Recently, some 25 years later, I rushed to a small, rented hall in Cyprus where Professor Seely and I were to speak at a missionary fireside. The missionaries had placed an ad in the local paper announcing the meeting: “Two American University Professors Will Speak on Paul’s Life and Labors.” Paul had visited the island nearly 2,000 years ago, and now we were there to talk to members and nonmembers of the Church about his life and ministry.

As we made our way into the building, we were introduced to some of the local members, visitors, guests, and missionaries serving on the island. I was impressed with the group of young elders and sisters. They were assigned to the Athens Greece Mission and were serving at this time on the island of Cyprus. They came from many lands, including Canada, England, Sweden, Germany, and France. But as the group opened up, there he was: Elder Cole. Yes, it was the son of Trafford and Fernanda Cole—the young couple I had known previously in Italy. Elder Cole was a second-generation Italian speaking modern Greek as a Latter-day Saint missionary in Cyprus!

Of course my story can be duplicated dozens of times by many of you here today. My students are returned missionaries from California, Montana, Chile, France, Russia, Mongolia, India, Korea, etcetera. My colleagues serve as mission presidents throughout the world—in places that seemed closed forever but that have now been opened by the hand of the Lord. The gospel is spreading across the nations of the earth. Although we are relatively few in number, nevertheless the destiny of this Church is such that before the Lord’s coming there shall be Saints upon all the face of the earth.

I’ll share another personal reflection. Many years ago when I was a young intern, we had a wonderful neighbor lady named Netta Davis. She had a serious heart condition—a diseased mitral valve—destroyed in her youth by the ravages of rheumatic fever. Her husband, Don, was a fellow physician. Because he and I were usually at the hospital, Netta and my sweetheart, Dantzel, became very close friends. Sadly, as the years went by, Netta’s strength ebbed. Her congestive heart failure worsened. Her little body finally died because of this malfunctioning valve.

This was long before the advent of surgical repairs within the heart. Such was hardly dreamed of in those days. But Netta’s passing changed my life. I determined that her death was not to have been in vain.

Then I joined forces with a small team of researchers at a well-known university. Together we embarked on a project to develop an artificial heart-lung machine, as I mentioned earlier. The ultimate purpose of this effort was to allow repairs to be made within the empty heart while the circulation of the patient’s blood was temporarily maintained by the apparatus we were developing.

To make connectors for tubing, I learned quite a bit about glassblowing. And I learned how to operate lathes, drill presses, and other machines required to make pumps, valves, and cylinders. With my associates, I also had to learn the physiological requirements for oxygenation of the blood and the requirements for blood flow to and oxygen consumption of the tissues. We had to learn how to anticoagulate the blood and then reverse the anticoagulation so normal clotting could again be restored. And we learned the hard way that bacterial contamination could destroy an otherwise successful experiment. Incidentally, the conquering of that problem was the project for my Ph.D. thesis.

Long years elapsed before we were able to graduate from the laboratory to practical application in the operating room of a hospital. But finally it happened in 1951. The human heart could be opened. In the years that followed, thanks also to research in laboratories and clinics at many other universities, defective valves and other components could be repaired. The pioneering road was long and rugged. More than eight years elapsed from the time I received my doctor of medicine degree before I performed the first successful open-heart operation in Utah in 1955.

Netta Davis did not die in vain. Her desperate need motivated me as nothing else could. I thought of her the day I operated upon the heart of President Spencer W. Kimball. In a real sense, it was partially because of Netta that I was able to perform that operation President Kimball needed.

Rachel couldn’t decide. Should she take the music box? Or maybe her doll? Or … ? Her eyes full of tears, she fled from the bedroom to the kitchen. Mother was stirring a pot of stew.
Rachel slid into a kitchen chair and rested her elbows on the table. “Father says I can take something to America, but it must be very small so as not to take up space in the covered wagon.”
A ray of sunshine reached through the window and played on the sugar bowl on the table. Rachel gazed at the sparkle of sun on crystal.
“I’ll take the sugar bowl!” she exclaimed. “Every time I look at it, I’ll remember the sweetness of England.”
“But, dear, it’s glass. It’s sure to break,” Mother said.
“Please, Mother!”
They wrapped the bowl in a soft piece of cloth, put it in a small box, and tied a string around it. All the way to Liverpool on the train, Rachel hugged it to her.
At the boat dock, Rachel looked at the rusty old ship. “Oh, Father, it’s so rickety!”
“God travels with us,” Father said. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Storms followed them across the ocean. The ship creaked and shuddered. Rachel clutched the box to her chest. Whenever a wave sent the box flying from her arms, she dove after it. Then she tore at the string to check the precious sugar bowl.
“You’re wearing the string out,” Mother said as Rachel opened the box time after time.
When the ship finally reached New York, Rachel’s family boarded a train. Mother offered to carry the sugar bowl, but Rachel shook her head.
At last the train pulled into Omaha, Nebraska. Father filled a covered wagon with boxes of clothes and necessities. Bedding was piled on top of the boxes. A tent and Father’s tools were crammed inside. Pans and kettles jangled at the sides of the wagon. Father tucked Rachel’s box into a small space in the wagon. Before dawn, a bugle sounded, and the wagon train moved out.
Problems on the journey were never ending. People got sick. Oxen were often lame. Once from a wagon up ahead came the cry, “Axle down!” The wagons suddenly stopped, confused oxen knocking wagons helter-skelter in clouds of heavy dust.
“My sugar bowl!” Rachel cried. Trying to reach the wagon, Rachel stepped into a bed of cactus. Dozens of little barbs pierced her feet.
Mother used a needle to pick the cactus spines out of Rachel’s throbbing feet. Finally, Rachel found her little box and untied the string. The sugar bowl was safe.
Days turned into weeks and then months. The wagons rolled on. Some days Rachel parched in a dry, hot wind. Other days, great black clouds opened up, and sheets of rain whipped against her as she slogged through heavy, sticky mud.
Rachel held her breath at every river crossing. Sometimes the big wagons overturned, spilling their contents into the water. Crossing the rugged Rocky Mountains, wagons sometimes got too near the cliff and tumbled over. Rachel began to carry her box.
Finally, she looked down upon the Salt Lake Valley. Zion spread before her. She joined the others in shouts of joy mixed with tears.
In the valley, Father used his tools to build a small house. He made chairs, then a table.
Mother covered the table with a tablecloth brought from England. In the center Rachel placed her precious sugar bowl. She slid into a chair and rested her elbows on the table.
A sunbeam found its way through a window. Rachel gazed into the sparkle of sun on crystal. It wasn’t England Rachel thought about now. It was Zion. Rachel was home.

When I entered the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple with the youth of my ward to do baptisms for the dead, we waited a few minutes in a reception room. Then the temple workers asked us to go down a hall where there were several chairs and to wait again.
Because it was a Saturday, many people had come to the temple from all over Argentina. We waited there for two and a half hours, just sitting quietly. Some not very pleasant thoughts began to run through my mind: “How can they make us wait all this time? I’m tired, and apparently it would have been better if I hadn’t come, because this is a waste of time.”
I got up and started walking down the hall. Soon one of the workers came out and said: “Young people, please don’t be impatient. I understand that you have been waiting for a long time, but do you know something? In the spirit world millions of people have been waiting for this moment for centuries, and I can assure you that they are very anxious for their turn to come. The brethren are baptizing and confirming, and they cannot do more than they are doing.”
When he said these words, I felt embarrassed. I realized that I was being selfish because I didn’t want to give hours for those people who had waited such long years and who did not have the opportunity I had to hear about the true Church and be baptized on earth.
The worker came out again, and he began to call names from our ward. A sister gave us white clothing that more or less fit. After we got dressed, she pulled back our hair and tied it with a white tie.
Then, barefoot, we walked to the benches in the baptistry. The carpets were so soft and high it was as if we weren’t even walking on the ground.
When it was my turn, I was as nervous as if it were the day of my own baptism. But the workers were so nice and they had such patience with each of us that it felt incredible.
When I came out of the font, a sister was waiting for me with a big white towel and a huge smile. I changed my clothes and went into a room where I was confirmed. The same sister who had given me the towel went with me and thanked me for being willing to do the Lord’s work.
When I left the temple, I realized it had been one of the best experiences of my life. The temple is a holy place and the Lord’s Spirit is there, directing His great work. It is worth any wait.

Christopher’s next birthday was an important one because he would be eight years old and could be baptized. He smiled whenever he thought of the pirate party his mother had planned and his favorite foods she would cook.
Early one morning Mother called him to the phone. It was Grandmother Jo. “Would you like to come to my house on your way home from school today?” she asked. “I have a very important treasure to share with you.”
The only treasure Christopher could think of concerned pirates and an X marking the spot for treasure on a treasure map. He eagerly agreed to go.
The school day went by slowly for Christopher, but finally the last bell rang. He ran all the way to Grandma Jo’s, and he was out of breath when she opened the door and gave him a big hug. “Christopher,” she asked, “would you like some hot, freshly baked whole wheat bread?”
Christopher nodded his head as the smell of it grabbed him by the nose and pulled him into the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table and watched the butter melt as his grandmother spread it on a slice of hot bread. Then she added homemade raspberry jam, and his stomach gave a little growl, begging for a bite. Grandmother Jo handed him the bread and poured him a glass of milk. Oh, how he loved that taste!
When he had finished eating, Christopher followed Grandmother Jo to the living room, where a curious-looking box sat on a low table by the sofa.
“Now that you’re going to be eight, I want to share a special treasure chest with you,” she said. Carefully she opened the lid, and Christopher saw a glint of metal. His heart beat faster as he imagined pirate gold and jewels!
Grandmother Jo reached in and pulled out a small velvet box. She opened it to reveal a medal. “This is the Purple Heart medal awarded to your Grandfather Thomas, who fought in World War II,” she explained. “He was wounded on D-Day.”
Christopher proudly held the medal in his hands. Grandfather must have been very brave, he thought. Grandmother Jo took a picture from the chest and showed it to Christopher. It was Grandfather Thomas. He looked handsome and brave dressed in his soldier uniform.
Now Grandmother Jo took another photograph out of the treasure chest. “This is my wedding picture,” she explained. She pointed to the handkerchief she was holding in the picture and pulled one from the chest. “And this is the same handkerchief that I had that day when we went to the temple to be married. My mother and grandmother used it for their weddings too. The lace was crocheted by my grandmother.”
Even though it looked old, Christopher knew it must be a priceless possession to Grandmother Jo.
Next, Christopher’s grandmother showed him a gold ring set with a ruby. “Your grandfather first wore this ring when he was on his mission,” she explained. “And then your father wore it during his mission too. Would you like to wear it on your mission?”
Christopher’s eyes widened. “I sure would,” he replied. “Can I try it on my finger now?” The ring was too big, but Grandmother Jo assured him that he would grow into it.
This is a real treasure, he decided, and not just because it’s made of gold with a ruby stone. He imagined himself wearing a white shirt and a dark suit. And there on my finger will be the ring!
Something momentarily caught the light when Grandmother Jo showed Christopher a miniature Eagle Scout pin that she had received from Christopher’s dad when he became on Eagle Scout. “Oh, I was proud of him as he stood so straight and tall to accept the award. Then he gave me the pin and kissed me.”
How happy Grandmother Jo looks, Christopher thought. When pirates found their treasures, they were very happy, but not in the same way that Grandmother Jo is right now.
Grandmother Jo explained that this chest held wonderful memory treasures. “And because they are so dear to me, I want to share them with you,” she told Christopher. “These are my people, and I belong to them. And so do you!”
Her face beamed and she chuckled as she showed Christopher a picture of a big white horse harnessed to a cart. In the driver’s seat sat a girl dressed in old-fashioned clothes. “This is your Great-Great-Grandmother Alice, who won every race she entered with this horse and cart! The roughest, toughest boys were always challenging Grandmother Alice to a race, but she was the winner every time!” Grandmother Jo said. “She practiced hard, loved her horse, and treated it with kindness. She was so careful about its feeding, watering, and brushing that it would do anything for her.”
Christopher smiled as he imagined riding along with his Great-Great-Grandmother Alice as she won a race.
Grandmother Jo looked at Christopher and wondered if he could see that these treasures were worth more than any silver or gold. She hoped that he saw that they were symbols of bravery, kindness, and devotion.
Next from the chest came a beautiful watch. The case was of shining gold, and it swung back and forth from a gold chain in his grandmother’s hand. “My Great-Grandfather Charles was a pioneer policeman and bodyguard to Brigham Young,” Grandmother Jo told Christopher. “He always wore this watch in his vest pocket.”
Christopher looked at a photograph of his great-great-great-grandfather. He has a handsome beard, he decided. I like his eyes … so kind and loving. Christopher held the watch and pushed a little lever. The face cover popped open so he could see the hands. How many times did my great-great-great-grandfather open this watch? he wondered.
The clock on the mantel chimed, and both Grandmother Jo and Christopher were surprised that the time had passed so quickly.
Christopher’s eyes were shining as he remembered his different ancestors. They are all my people! he thought with pride.
Grandmother Jo had more treasures in her box, but it was time for Christopher to go home. “Would you like to come again and find out more about my memory chest?” she asked.
They made a date for the next week. He told his grandmother that he would like to visit with her every week—and not just for hot bread and jam.
Christopher enjoyed hearing stories of the family members Grandmother Jo had told him. He felt that they were almost like old friends.
Grandmother always said that friends were a treasure! What fun it will be, he thought, to find out more about my family! Maybe I can make my own treasure box. If I start now, it might fill a whole room someday!

Several months ago my husband performed the baptism of a dear friend. As I sat in the service, my mind and heart raced over her years of preparation for that single event—the principles carefully taught, constantly observed, and quietly accepted, the acknowledgment of God’s hand in life events, the sweet confirmation of the Spirit as difficult, but right, choices were made. My mind recalled the past and rejoiced in the present, and I couldn’t help but anticipate the future. I hoped with all my heart that this good woman would remain actively connected to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the rest of her life—that she would continue to learn and live the gospel and experience the fulness of its blessings.
I telephoned our newly baptized friend last week to ask how things were going for her. Her response was enthusiastic: “My husband and I have been called to teach the 15- and 16-year-olds, and I’m learning so much!” I felt reassured and excited. What better place than a classroom—for her and for each of us!

Upon my arrival in Misawa, Japan, I went to a Baptist missionary, but he was unable to answer my questions. He encouraged me to rely on faith, but I could no longer live on the innocent faith I had as a young man. The reality I found in the world as an adult was simply too great. I had to find the answers and I had to find them now.
I was becoming desperate, so a friend asked me to accompany him to the Far East Conference of the Southern Baptist Convention in Shimoda, believing that these learned men would be able to answer my questions satisfactorily. Enroute to the convention, my friend made what he later determined was a great mistake. We stopped in Tokyo to see his friend, Bill Head, whom he had met in Thailand. Upon meeting Bill for the first time, I realized that he was different. Without him even saying a word I knew that he had something that I wanted. He radiated confidence, peace of mind, a love for life, and a love for people. He seemed to know who he was and where he was going. He had the answers I needed so desperately.
I asked him why he was unique. Bill replied, “I am a Mormon.” He gave me some pamphlets to read, and I took them with me to that convention in Shimoda. I read the material. At first the Joseph Smith account seemed ridiculous, preposterous, almost absurd. I wanted to believe that God spoke to men today. I wanted to believe that the heavens were not closed and that God was real. I wanted to believe that he lived and cared about his children and had not left us alone to drift aimlessly through life for some mysterious end. I also knew that if ever the world needed another witness of Jesus Christ it was now. But because it was so new and because it had been such a long time since God had manifested himself to the ancients, I was skeptical.
The next morning I attended a seminar at the convention. The seminar’s purpose was to discuss the anti-Christ ideologies. The first religion they attacked was not communism or some other godless ideology, but Mormonism. They had decided among themselves that Mormons worshiped Joseph Smith and ignored the fact that the formal name of the Mormon church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name implied anything, it implied that Mormons were Christians of the highest degree, for they were the only people I had found who claimed the name of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Joseph Smith, John the Baptist, Paul, Mary, John Wesley, or Martin Luther. It was the Church of Jesus Christ.
I felt the Mormons were being misunderstood so I attempted to defend them. Now I probably made somewhat of a fool of myself in the minds of those learned people, but in the process of this defense, a still, small voice said, “You’d better find out more so you can do better next time.”
I left the convention that day and returned to Tokyo. I found Bill and told him I wanted to learn more. He introduced me to a young couple, the Fredericks, who taught me the missionary discussions in two days. During that glorious two-day period the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in my mind fell together and I found myself and my true identity.
““I am a child of God!” I exclaimed to myself. “I began with him. There is purpose and dignity to life, and a great destiny beyond!” I began to realize for the first time that I didn’t have to doubt, worry, be confused, or tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine because there is a prophet of God and twelve apostles on the earth today, just as there was anciently in the Church of Jesus Christ. I had found his Church!
Less than two weeks later, on August 12, 1970, I was baptized in Kunsan City, Korea. I know that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we are sons and daughters of God.

The Sabbath is clearly a day in which we worship, work, and serve, as our employment circumstances allow. Each one of us has different responsibilities to attend to. Healthcare workers, police, and other vital occupations may be required to work on Sundays. When I was working as a physician, I had to do shifts in the hospital on some Sundays as assigned by the department director. I would go early to the hospital to evaluate the patients admitted under my care dressed in trousers, a white shirt, and a tie. I kept a prayer in my heart and focused on the service that was needed for the attention of our patients. As soon as the work was done, I would go straight to church and meet with my family there for the remainder of the meetings that I was able to join.

Shortly after my daughter, the first of our three children, was born, my wife and I purchased a piano. We hoped she would have musical talent like her grandfather—a fine composer and pianist. I particularly liked to imagine her playing the piano at church, accompanying the congregation. This would please our Father in Heaven, I thought. And the gift of music would bless our family.
Several years passed, with the piano serving no purpose other than decorating our living room. One day my father-in-law offered to teach me to read music. At some point in the future, he said, I might even be able to play a few simple pieces. I considered the very idea a joke—and not a very good one. I had never even considered that I might have musical talent. Nevertheless, he began to work with me. Unfortunately, I found the study of music unpleasant and even painful, and I quit studying about six months later. In time, I forgot what little I had learned.
In 1983 our daughter turned eight, and my wife and I felt she was old enough to begin music lessons. Unfortunately, she did not enjoy the lessons any more than I had. Since we had already paid for a month of lessons, I decided to take the remaining lessons myself. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the lessons, and after they ended, I continued to practice on my own. My progress was slow, but by the time the Christmas season came around, I could almost play six different hymns.
When the bishop visited us during the Christmas holidays, I played “Away in a Manger” (Hymns, number 206) and asked him to sing along. We had to start over several times because I made so many mistakes, but eventually we finished the carol. The bishop encouraged me to keep practicing and to learn a sacrament hymn. I began to practice very faithfully, and to my surprise, I found that practicing was no longer drudgery. I had a goal for myself—to be able to play at church.
On one occasion while I was practicing I distinctly heard a voice singing the melody of the hymn I was playing. A wave of emotion swept over me, and I felt that my Father in Heaven was pleased with my efforts.
Several months passed, and I continued to practice devotedly. One Sunday I went to church early to practice. The room was quite dark and I couldn’t see well, but I sensed that someone was watching me. Soon the bishop stepped forward. He told me he had been listening, and he felt I was ready to play for Church meetings. I played the piano for the Madrid Second Ward that very day. A few days later, I was officially set apart as the ward pianist.
By this time practicing was exciting, and I was surprised at how quickly I was able to learn the hymns. I worked hard, but I realized that my efforts were being magnified by the Holy Ghost. My Heavenly Father had prepared me little by little for this calling and was now helping me fulfill it.
Today, playing the piano continues to be a great joy. I play for priesthood meetings in the Madrid Third Branch, where I am the branch president. My daughter also eventually resumed her music studies and has served as branch pianist. She is now married and lives in Madrid, Spain.
Often as I play I think of the Lord’s words: “My soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12). I am grateful that my Heavenly Father prepared me with a desire and blessed me with the ability to play the hymns of the Church. They are truly a prayer unto him.

It was interesting to me that a few months later, while I was serving a mission in London, England, that another professor, a distinguished Oxford-educated teacher at London University, took exactly the opposite position. Dr. Ebeid Sarofim, an Egyptian by birth and an expert in Semitic languages, read a copy of the Book of Mormon that he had discovered by chance and sent a letter to President David O. McKay asking for permission to be baptized. President McKay referred him to the London mission home.

Dr. Sarofim met with the missionaries and said he had an intellectual testimony of the validity of the Book of Mormon because he was convinced that it was indeed a translation of the learning of the Jews and the language of the Egyptians for the periods described in the Book of Mormon. One of the many examples he used was the conjunctive phrase “and it came to pass,” which he said mirrored how he would translate phraseology used often in ancient Semitic writings.

The professor was informed that while his intellectual approach based on his profession had helped him, it was still essential to have a spiritual testimony. Through study, listening to prophetic messages, and prayer, he gained a spiritual witness and was baptized. So what one famous humorist saw as an object of ridicule, a scholar recognized as profound evidence of the truth of the Book of Mormon that was confirmed to him by the Spirit.20

Anciently, certain women sacrificed as they testified and lived the teachings of Jesus. Certain women in the early days of the Restoration did the same. Drusilla Hendricks and her family were among those who, as new converts, suffered during the persecution of the Saints in Clay County, Missouri. Her husband was permanently paralyzed during the Battle of Crooked River. She was left to care for him as well as provide for her family.

“At one particularly distressing time, when the family was out of food, she remembered that a voice told her, ‘Hold on, for the Lord will provide.’”

When her son was needed to volunteer for the Mormon Battalion, at first Drusilla resisted and wrestled in prayer with Heavenly Father until “it was as though a voice said to her, ‘Do you not want the highest glory?’ She answered naturally, ‘Yes,’ and the voice continued, ‘How do you think to gain it save by making the greatest sacrifices?’”8

Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

This story about the Aaronic Priesthood begins with a young woman, 16-year-old Lauren DellAquila of the Cary Second Ward, Apex North Carolina Stake. Lauren hadn’t come to Church for years. She had never been baptized and confirmed, “but I just knew in my heart that the Church was true.”
She also knew David Christison, 16, and Andrew Hill, 15, who attend the same school, are Latter-day Saints. “I’m in marching band with David and had a couple of classes with Andrew last year,” she says. And she knew they stood by their beliefs. “It meant a lot to see their example, because most teens at our school don’t have values like they do,” Lauren explains.
Then one day after band, some other classmates were making unkind comments about the Church. Lauren told them if they really wanted to know the truth, they shouldn’t repeat rumors; they should find out for themselves. Afterward, David thanked her and asked how she knew so much about the Church. “She said that when she was really young she went to Church, but then her parents divorced and she stopped coming,” David says. “So I invited her to come again.”
“People had tried to get me to come back before, but for one reason or another it had never happened,” Lauren explains. “But when I told David and Andrew that I did want to try again, they were excited. I started coming to meetings, and they introduced me to the bishop, the missionaries, and the young women in the ward. They helped me feel at home.”
Soon Lauren was baptized and confirmed, and today she’s a happy, confident Laurel who recently gave a sacrament meeting talk about the importance of the priesthood. “If the gospel had not been restored,” she says, “I wouldn’t have seen two young men honoring their priesthood. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I have had to make covenants and to draw close to the Savior.”
It’s a similar story for Hope Riner, an 8-year-old in the same ward. She benefited from the good example of her 17-year-old half-brother, Andrew Roberts. He joined the Church a little over a year ago and was recently ordained a priest, which meant he could baptize her. “I felt great about it, because we have a strong bond already,” Hope says. “I was glad my brother could use the priesthood to help me.”
“It was an incredible experience,” Andrew says. “I know I need to be an example to my sister, not only as a brother, but also as an example of the kind of young man she should have as friends and the kind of man she will marry one day. By my example, I’m preparing her to understand how the priesthood can bless her life.”
Both Lauren and Hope know that the young men in their ward—as well as in the Cary Third Branch (Spanish speaking), which is dependent on their ward—take the priesthood seriously. “They don’t just talk about it,” Lauren says. “They live it.”
Maxwell Guerra, 13, is another example. He’s a member of the branch but serves as the deacons quorum president of the ward. On any given Sunday, he’s meeting with the presidency and the quorum adviser to keep track of the quorum members, plan activities, and make sure all the deacons needed will be there to pass the sacrament. After church on a recent fast Sunday, he helped another deacon collect fast offerings and then visited Alma Parraga, who is about to turn 12 and will soon be joining the quorum.
Andrew Hill, mentioned earlier, is president of the teachers quorum, and he loves the fellowship he finds there. “It’s more than just getting along with each other,” he stresses. “We strengthen each other and learn from each other.” Any assignment, he has found, is easier with teamwork, and that includes home teaching. “One of the great things we do in the Church is to look after each other,” he says. “It’s a powerful thing when an Aaronic Priesthood holder and a Melchizedek Priesthood holder become a team, with a responsibility to watch over families and individuals.”
The teachers also spend time preparing the sacrament, and Andrew says that has special significance for him. “Priests bless the sacrament,” he says, “and deacons pass the sacrament. But teachers set a tone of reverence by having everything ready before the meetings begin.” Being involved with something so sacred is a great privilege for the Aaronic Priesthood, Andrew says.
Of course, the bishop of the ward is the president of the Aaronic Priesthood. In the Cary Second Ward, Matthew Watkins is the first assistant to Bishop Charles N. Anderson. Matthew says he feels one of the most important things the priests do is to study the gospel together. He is grateful when the bishop helps the priests to understand gospel principles. “The priests help teach each other, too,” he says. “Each Sunday I feel like I understand more and more.” In particular, he remembers a lesson about fasting. “It helped me see how important it is to get close to the Spirit.” He also enjoys providing music for priesthood meeting. “Music is another way of getting close to the Spirit,” he explains.
Another priest, Erick Wells, 18, recently ordained his younger brother, Michael, 12, to the office of deacon. “I wanted Erick to ordain me,” Michael says, “because he’s one of the greatest examples in my life. He never does anything wrong that I’ve noticed, so everything he does, I know I can do too.”
Erick smiles at the tribute. “I really enjoyed being able to use my priesthood to confer it on Michael,” he says. “I feel a great responsibility to be an example not only to my family but to other people as well so that I can share in the gospel with all of them.”
Erick says the goal of all young men in the Church should be “to obtain both the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthoods, make covenants in the temple, be missionaries, prepare for a lifetime of service, and live faithfully with their families so that they can be together with Heavenly Father again.” Matthew agrees. “The Aaronic Priesthood lifts us to a higher sense of what we need to be doing,” he says.
And that’s what’s happening in the Cary Second Ward. Ask these young men who is using the priesthood to make a difference right now, and they can truthfully answer, “We are!” Ask them who is using the priesthood to prepare for the future, and the answer is the same.
How has the priesthood made a difference in your life? E-mail your experience to us at newera@ldschurch.org.