Gospel Story Finder

As I attended college and then medical school, I was continually drawn to Latter-day Saints. I watched them closely, and they rarely disappointed me. Finally, after several years, I decided that I was going to learn for myself what made them so different. I went to the public library and checked out every book I could find about the Mormons.
I found a copy of the Book of Mormon and began to read it. As soon as I read just a few chapters, I had the feeling that this was something special. After about six months of reading and studying, I realized that I needed to make some changes in my life. A voice inside me whispered that real faith requires action. If I wanted to experience what my LDS friends had, I knew I would have to act.
So I decided to be baptized. As soon as I made the decision, I felt the assurance of the Spirit. It was the best decision I ever made!
After I was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, I finally understood the source of that “Mormon confidence.” It comes from the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

As another example, take Willard Richards—educated, refined, a doctor of medicine. When Joseph and Hyrum surrendered themselves to the governor of Illinois and were placed in Carthage Jail, a handful of the brethren went with them. By the afternoon of June 27, 1844, most had left to take care of certain matters of business, leaving only John Taylor and Willard Richards with the Prophet and his brother Hyrum. That afternoon following dinner the jailer, knowing of the mob outside, suggested that they would be safer in the cell of the jail. Turning to Willard Richards, Joseph asked, “If we go into the cell will you go with us?” To this Elder Richards responded:
Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you—you did not ask me to come to Carthage—you did not ask me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for ‘treason,’ I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free. [B.H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, 2:283]
Strong and intelligent men do not demonstrate that kind of love for a charlatan or a fraud. That kind of love comes of God and the recognition of integrity in men. It is an expression of the spirit and example of the Savior, who gave his life for all men and who declared, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).

A few months ago, I set out to paint lines at Laie Park for a new sport called Pickleball. Within minutes of laying out the masking tape and pulling out my yellow traffic paint and paint rollers, I had 15 kids under the age of ten saying, “Hey uncle, I like try.” Based on their level of fascination with the painting process, I doubt a single one of them had ever used a paint roller in his life, but due to their eagerness to help and their willingness to learn, I chose to change my focus from painting Pickleball lines to helping children learn. I quickly realized it was more important to validate and encourage the children’s innate desire to serve and to learn than it was to paint perfect Pickleball lines. The kids were great. They very dutifully lined up and one-by-one and took turns dipping the rollers in the paint and rolling out the lines. Kids are naturally born with a love for learning. If you feel you have lost that love for learning, seek to regain it by trying something totally new in a safe, loving environment. If I could express one hope in my new responsibilities in the Center for Learning and Teaching, it would be that each of our classrooms become a safe and loving environment but also an environment that challenges each of us to live up to our potential.

In mid-July 1984, just weeks after my wife, Carol, and I were married in the Los Angeles California Temple, we were on our way to Utah, where I would begin my career and Carol would finish her college education. We were driving in separate cars. Between the two vehicles, we were transporting everything we owned.

About halfway to our destination, Carol pulled up alongside my car and began to motion to me. This was in the days before cell phones and smartphones, texting and Twitter. Seeing the expression on her face through her car window, I could tell she was not feeling well. She communicated that she could continue driving, but I was worried for my new bride.

As we approached the small town of Beaver, Utah, she again pulled alongside, and I could tell she needed to stop. She was ill and could not continue. We had two cars full of clothes and wedding gifts, but unfortunately we had little money. A hotel room was out of our budget. I was not sure what to do.

Neither of us had ever been to Beaver, and not really knowing what I was looking for, we drove around for a few minutes until I saw a park. We pulled into the parking lot and found a tree with some shade, where I laid out a blanket so Carol could rest.

A few minutes later another car drove into the nearly empty parking lot and parked next to our two cars. A woman, about the age of our mothers, got out of her car and asked if anything was wrong and if she could help. She mentioned that she had noticed us as she drove by and felt she should stop. When we explained our situation, she immediately invited us to follow her home, where we could rest as long as we needed to.

We soon found ourselves on a comfortable bed in a cool basement bedroom of her home. Just as we had settled, this wonderful sister mentioned that she had a number of errands to run and that we would be left alone for a few hours. She told us that if we were hungry, we were welcome to anything we could find in the kitchen, and that if we left before she returned home, to please close the front door.

After getting some much-needed sleep, Carol felt better and we continued our trip without stopping by the kitchen. When we left, the kind woman had not yet returned home. To our chagrin, we didn’t make note of the address and have never properly thanked our own good Samaritan, who stopped along the way and opened her home to strangers in need.

Sincerely seeking to be more like the Savior will allow us to see what we may not otherwise see. Our good Samaritan lived close enough to the Spirit to respond to a prompting and approach a stranger in need.

Only those who had seen with spiritual eyes, recognizing the need, acted and blessed those who suffered. Our good Samaritan recognized the need as she saw with spiritual eyes.

We may act by giving our time and talents, a kind word, or a strong back. As we seek and see, we will be placed in circumstances and situations where we can act and bless. Our good Samaritan acted. She took us to her home and provided us with what she had. In essence she said, “Such as I have give I thee.” It was exactly what we needed.

When I was 17, I went to live with my aunt and uncle in Sekondi, Ghana, who were sponsoring my education. When I arrived at their home, I immediately noticed unusual things about their family. They had morning and evening prayers together and held family meetings on Monday evenings that seemed to make each family member feel loved and appreciated. Even though I was an active member of another faith, I became interested in finding out about their beliefs.
When I asked Uncle Sarfo about the Church, he explained many of the Church’s teachings. Some I believed, and others I did not understand.
My uncle then asked the missionaries to teach me the discussions, and I received all six of the lessons. But when the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I refused because I did not have a testimony of the Book of Mormon. I found it difficult to read and understand.
To please Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Sarfo, I had already been attending sacrament meeting. Now they encouraged me to enroll in the early-morning seminary course that was to begin in two weeks. Getting out of bed at 4:30 A.M. was no small matter for me, but the seminary teacher, Solomon Agbo, visited me, encouraged me to attend, and seemed already to care about me. I decided to go to seminary, and once I made that decision, I resolved not to be absent even for a single day. The course of study was the Book of Mormon, and I wanted to see if I might gain a testimony of the book.
As I began studying the Book of Mormon for seminary, I experienced the feelings Elder Parley P. Pratt (1807–57) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described when he first found the Book of Mormon. “I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page,” he wrote. “I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 18).
As I read, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ. Through seminary the Book of Mormon became much easier to read. Whenever it was hard to follow, my teacher helped me understand. I received a testimony that the Book of Mormon is “the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man [will] get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, selected by Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 194).
I was baptized on 5 March 1995. By the time I was 21 I was a seminary teacher myself, helping others know of the divinity and truthfulness of the book that changed my life.

Our circumstances improved, and at last we were able to buy a mobile home. And it was our good fortune to move into a mobile home park next door to a Latter-day Saint family. They were very friendly and often urged us to go to church with them. I felt that I needed God for my child, so I was glad they kept asking until we gave in.
It happened that our first meeting was a fast and testimony meeting. I was a little bewildered by this new experience, but not Ben; he was converted on the spot. We received two missionary discussions in the next two weeks. Then on Saturday, 28 February 1970, we had three more discussions and were interviewed and baptized that same night.

In December 2020, I was called to be the bishop of my ward, and I gained a different insight into the struggles that people like Debbie face. I have been able to counsel with members who are caring for loved ones with various medical conditions, including dementia. Their trials, while certainly refining them spiritually, wear them down physically and mentally. I found that my role as bishop was to connect my ward members with resources that could provide comfort, support, and real help.
I engaged my ward council. Prayerful consideration was given to determine who would be the right ministering brothers and sisters to provide the best support. When we invited these ministering brothers and sisters to serve, I often connected them with community organizations to provide training and offer support. I made assignments of where and when to help. In their usual loving way, the Relief Society jumped into action to provide support to sisters and brothers who were caregivers.
In most instances, caregivers downplay the dementia symptoms and avoid involving other family members or friends and neighbors. This isolation deprives the person living with Alzheimer’s and their caregiver from receiving much needed support. Likewise, it increases the stress, both mental and physical, on those providing care.
Because of the strenuous toll on caregivers, at least 36 percent of them die before the person for whom they are caring dies. Often it is not until the family is in crisis that they seek outside help, and at this point intervention and support services are limited in what can be offered.
I have relied heavily on the counsel from President Henry B. Eyring, who said: “Remember that when the Lord lets us encounter someone in distress, we honor the good Samaritan for what he did not do as much as for what he did. He did not pass by. … He did what he could for the beaten man and then put in place a specific plan for others to do more.”
In the same general conference address, he mentioned the toll on caregivers: “Even though extended and loving service to people is richly rewarded, you have learned that there are physical, emotional, and financial limits to what is possible. The person giving care long enough can become the one who needs care.”1
For these reasons and many others, it is important for ward council members to provide support and assistance, even when caregivers aren’t quite sure what can be done. The ward council has many resources available to them through Church programs and from outside community agencies.
Another friend of mine, whom I will call Frank, reached out to me in my role with the Alzheimer’s Association a few years ago while he was serving as a bishop. He was concerned about several members of his ward who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and suspected that others had some form of undiagnosed dementia. Frank was anxious to meet the needs of these ward members and support other members serving as caregivers. Unaware of any resources, he turned to me out of desperation with a plea for help.
We arranged for a presentation to his ward’s empty-nester home evening group. Normally about 25 people attended this monthly activity. After it was announced that the presentation would be about Alzheimer’s disease, more than 100 people attended. Many were concerned about getting Alzheimer’s disease but weren’t sure what it is or how they might be able to reduce their risk.
During this meeting, I shared a wide variety of tools available through the Alzheimer’s Association and from other community sources.
I encouraged them to visit alz.org to find free web-based services offered by the Alzheimer’s Association and other community organizations. The site includes family support services as well as education programs about the signs and symptoms of the disease and how to reduce risk of developing it. The site offers an online Alzheimer’s and Dementia Caregiver Center, with helpful tools for caregivers. It also provides connections for caregivers to local support groups, care consultations, and opportunities to connect with others who are in the early stages of the disease. Likewise, ward council members can use this resource to better understand the disease and learn how they can offer assistance to ward members serving as caregivers.
Another effective service is a free 24/7 helpline at 800-272-3900. Trained consultants offer callers advice, information about care, help with crisis situations, referrals to local organizations, and support in more than 200 languages and dialects.
The site communityresourcefinder.org is a database of organizations in the United States that offer services for people living with dementia and their caregivers. Services include respite care, adult day care, assisted living, and connection to local area agencies on aging. Alzheimer.ca provides similar help for those in Canada.
The Church has an excellent web page called “Support for Caregivers” that provides a number of helpful resources. It can be found at this shortened URL: bit.ly/3oXe5gZ.
As I shared these resources with Frank’s ward council, other members, and caregivers, he observed increased support for and engagement with those members affected by Alzheimer’s and other dementias in his ward and stronger support for caregivers. Increased knowledge can make all the difference!
In my capacity as bishop, I have seen these resources become valuable to help ward council members be more aware of Alzheimer’s disease and dementia and more capable of offering meaningful service to ward members who are caring for loved ones with dementia. Just like Nephi praying to ask the Lord where he might go to find ore from which he could make tools to build a ship, as ward members pray for resources to help those living with dementia and their caregivers, they can be guided to tools like those mentioned above that will allow them to minister with meaningful service. These resources will allow them to figuratively build a boat of care, support, and Christlike service.
Once my friend Debbie was released from the hospital, her husband and children sought out the Alzheimer’s Association. The local chapter provided support to the family. Debbie found the assistance she needed and realized the importance and power of allowing others to assist in caring for her mother.
The experiences of Debbie and Frank and myself within my own ward are evidence that there is a strong need for education and supportive information for caregivers, for ward leaders, and for people living with Alzheimer’s disease or other dementias. Perhaps more importantly, their experiences reflect the number of people who are suffering in silence and don’t know where to turn for assistance. Their stories demonstrate that many people in each ward and branch of the Church are dealing with these challenges.
The Christlike service we give to those with dementia and to their caregivers can help bring them peace.

Many years ago, I was the bishop of a new ward in Potomac, Maryland. We had to meet in a school, so one of our first goals as a ward was to build a meetinghouse. Back then, each ward in the Church had to help pay for its meetinghouse, and we sent letters to all the adults in our ward, asking if they would make a donation. As a bishopric, we then decided that the entire ward should be involved, so we also sent letters to the children and teenagers.
The following Sunday, I sat on the stand in Junior Sunday School, which was the meeting children used to attend while their parents were in regular Sunday School. As the music played and the children walked in, one little boy, Jimmy Theurer, came up to me on the stand and placed a nickel in my hand. Our meetinghouse got its start with the contribution of that one little boy.
This experience helped me realize that it’s important for children to be a part of what we do in the Church. They can do many good things for the Church, and they can help and encourage their parents to do good things as well.

I remember that there were buckets and kegs of nails—rusty, crooked nails. When I was just a small boy, Dad put me to work straightening those nails with a hammer. Years later, at Dad’s funeral, I reflected on that experience. I realized that he had been teaching me not only how to work but also a basic principle of the gospel.

We have become a throwaway society. No one thinks about straightening nails these days. We throw away anything that is damaged, including human souls. I learned from those hours of straightening rusty nails that even things terribly bent can be saved for a good and wholesome purpose.

Perhaps that discovery was the beginning of my great desire to recover every human soul. I know that they can be recovered, and that lives can be improved, corrected, and renewed to fulfill the full measure of their creation. My father instilled that faith in me.

I breathed hard as my math teacher talked about our upcoming activity.
“I know most of you young people listen to rap,” he said. “It’s not very good music, and it’s often hard to leave it alone.”
He wanted to show us how bad it was by having the class count the seconds to the first swear word of each song. He explained that after we collected the data we were going to put it into graphs.
“Now, I expect you all to be mature about this,” he lectured. “But if anyone’s uncomfortable or you know your parents wouldn’t approve, you can take your book and go into the hall.”
I gripped my chair. I knew I couldn’t stay here—but I was afraid to move. No one else seemed to be thinking the same thing I was. “I’ll be the only one if I leave,” I told myself.
I rationalized that maybe it would be okay if my teacher stopped the song after the first swear word. I was so petrified to stand up that I lost my chance to leave. The first song came on, and I felt my heart sink as the Spirit disappeared from the room.
The song ended, and its data was written on the board. Before I could think, another song blared curse words through the speakers. I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew that this kind of music drove away the Spirit, and that Heavenly Father didn’t want me listening to it. I picked up my book and asked the teacher if I could leave. As I walked out of the room, the Spirit returned, and I knew I had done the right thing.

“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of an apartment house with only cold running water in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as did all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

Julia Nompi Nqubeni was born 20 December 1917, the youngest of five children. Her father, a school teacher, died when she was four. Her mother struggled to make a living as a school teacher and washer woman. In spite of poverty and other major obstacles, Julia pursued an education and began a teaching career. She eventually became one of the first black women in South Africa to become a school principal.

Rebecca had to contend not only with her father’s disbelief but also with problems in her husband’s commitment to the faith. During 1837 and 1838, her husband, Frederick, then a member of the First Presidency, was repeatedly at odds with other Church leaders. He even left the Church for a time and was excommunicated. However, not long after, Frederick humbled himself, rejoined the Church, and died in full fellowship. We do not have a record of Rebecca’s feelings at the time, but she would not regret her allegiance with the Saints and remained committed.
When rumors of Frederick’s dissent reached Rebecca’s father in New York, Isaac hoped that Rebecca would renounce the faith as well. However, Rebecca sent him a letter that demonstrated her continued fidelity. After reading her response, Isaac slowly shook his head and said, “Not one word of repentance.”12

It was in the late 1960s when I first heard about Relief Society, and I was not yet a member of the Church.
I was excited to hear about this women’s organisation, and the missionaries had arranged for one of the sisters to pick me up for the evening homemaking meeting. It seemed like a beautiful thing to go to.
I was conscious that this was the first time to meet these women. So, with an emphasis on it being a Church meeting, my apparel was important. I was brought up in Ireland, but with the Anglican tradition that you don’t go to church without a hat. I had a hat I thought would be suitable. It happened to be quite flamboyant, with its navy and pink petals—rather like a bouquet on top of your head, but pretty. I had a matching navy coat and dress. So, well-manicured, with make-up on, and in my hat and outfit (including gloves), I was ready.
At the last minute, I thought I’d better take some food, because of the charity aspect of the organisation. So, I gathered some tins and placed them in a wicker picnic basket.
When the lovely lady arrived to pick me up, she was casually dressed in jeans and a nice sweater. I can’t remember if she had a look of shock on her face when she saw me, but it still didn’t dawn on me that I was way overdressed. Only when I went into the room did I realise they were all casually dressed — and there I was looking like the Queen Mother! I never did ask them what they thought, but they were wonderful sisters, wonderfully warm.
I’ve learned to be good at laughing at myself, but it was a serious moment for me—it was perhaps my first spiritual moment. I felt their genuine warmth, and I wanted to be connected with these sisters. I truly felt the sisterhood of which we talk and read.
I am grateful for the stability of the gospel that has helped me to ride many waves in my life. And since that first meeting I have always had an affinity with my sisters in the Church.

The baby was crying, our three other young children needed to be put to bed, and I was exhausted.
As I tried to wrap my mind around the impossible task before me, all I could hear in my mind were the last words of my husband (who was currently serving as our bishop) as he walked out the door that evening: “I’ll be at the pool with the priests. Tim is teaching the boys how to scuba dive.”
“Really?” I thought to myself. “I’m here juggling four children, and you’re off learning to scuba dive? How is this fair?”
Later that evening when Bruce walked in the door, he met one tired wife.
“How did your evening go?” he asked.
In tears, I told him how hard it had been to put four children, including a fussy baby, to bed knowing that he was off learning how to scuba dive. I could understand him leaving if someone in the ward was facing a crisis, yes. But scuba diving? Not so much.
Bruce sat down beside me. “I’m sorry it was hard for you. I didn’t go for the scuba diving. I didn’t even know if I would get into the pool. I went for two young men.”
He told me he had felt strongly he should attend this event because two priests who hadn’t attended church or activities for a long time were going to be there. He shared that he had been able to talk to them that evening, strengthening his relationship with them and helping them integrate with the others.
My heart softened, and I was reminded that him being called to serve as a bishop while also being a husband and father required a sacrifice from both of us.

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.
Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.
As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.
“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”
His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.
“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”
Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?
A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.
Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.
Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.
Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.
Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.
Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”
Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.
Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.
Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”
“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I could feel his love and concern from here.”
Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”
Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

On May 28, 2016, 16-year-old Beau Richey and his friend Austin were at a family ranch in Colorado. Beau and Austin climbed into their all-terrain vehicles with great anticipation for a day of adventure. They had not gone far when they encountered precarious conditions, at which point tragedy struck. The vehicle Beau was driving flipped over suddenly, pinning Beau under 400 pounds (180 kg) of steel. When Beau’s friend Austin got to him, he saw Beau struggling for his life. With every bit of his strength, he tried to pull the vehicle off his friend. It wouldn’t budge. He prayed for Beau and then frantically went for help. Emergency personnel finally arrived, but a few hours later Beau died. He was released from this mortal life.
His heartbroken parents arrived. As they stood in the small hospital with Beau’s dearest friend and family members, a police officer entered the room and handed Beau’s cell phone to his mother. As she took the phone, an audible alarm sounded. She opened the phone and saw Beau’s daily alarm. She read aloud the message her fun-loving, highly adventurous teenage son had set to read every day. It said, “Remember to put Jesus Christ at the center of your life today.”
Beau’s focus on his Redeemer does not lessen his loved ones’ sorrow in his absence. However, it gives great hope and meaning to Beau’s life and life choices. It allows his family and friends to look beyond only the grief of his early death to the joyful realities of the next life. What a tender mercy for Beau’s parents to see through their son’s eyes the thing he most prized.

While the boys were hiking, sharpening axes, and canoeing, Tami was learning to talk with her hands.
Tamara Anderson, 16, was spending the summer with her father at Scout camp. The camp had hired an interpreter for the deaf, and while dad was busy making sure the camp ran smoothly, Tami cornered the interpreter and soon had him teaching her to “sign.” “Signing” is the use of hand gestures to communicate with the deaf. Before the summer was over, Tami had the system fairly well mastered.
Returning home to Burley, Idaho, Tami found that a new family with a girl her age had moved in next door. Lee Anne Whitesides was deaf. Tami’s summer experience helped her to communicate with Lee Anne, and the two girls became best friends. Tami says her mother appreciates her friendship with Lee Anne because “we are two of the quietest teenagers she has ever seen.”
With practice Tami’s skill increased. She began interpreting for Lee Anne at sacrament meetings, bishop’s interviews, and other special events. Talking with her hands soon became as fun as talking on the telephone. “One good thing about sign language is you can talk with your mouth full—but the problem is you can’t talk with your hands full,” says Tami.
Tami’s abilities came to the attention of her stake president, and she was called as a regional Sunday School teacher for the deaf. The program for the deaf had just been started, and Tami was called to teach the children’s classes.
Sunday mornings Tami climbs into the family car and drives ten miles, picking up her students to take them to Sunday School. The first week of the program Tami and her students taught a few signs to the members of the ward where the Sunday School is held so they could communicate with the deaf students. During opening exercises Tami sits on the stand and interprets the talks and announcements for her students.
For the class itself, Tami has had to use a lot of ingenuity. Although she uses Church course materials, many of her lessons are her very own because of the mixed ages of her students. “I just use what I have learned about our Heavenly Father.”
It has been challenging to hold the children’s interest in class. Because her students learn by looking, Tami has to have good visual aids. One of Tami’s innovations is her teaching assistant—a Raggedy Andy doll that uses its hands to “talk” to the class. “I work the hands of the doll to make a few simple words and phrases like ‘My Heavenly Father loves me, and he loves you too.’ They really understand what Andy says. I only wish he could say more.”
After Sunday School Tami drives her students back home. “It’s a job to be driving and have the kids signing to me while I’m trying to watch the road.”
During sacrament meetings Tami sits at the back of the chapel with Lee Anne and interprets the meeting for her. Tami’s hands fly deftly, and Lee Anne seldom misses a word of the meeting. Sunday evening Tami starts to work on next week’s Sunday School lesson. In showing her love for the deaf, her actions as well as her hands speak louder than words.

Not long ago, as I sat waiting for the opening exercises of priesthood meeting, my home teaching companion mentioned that my scriptures were in the ward lost and found.
When I looked to my side, however, I saw that I still had my new set of scriptures, which my wife had given me. As for my old set, they were sitting in a basket next to a chair in our front room. I was puzzled.
“What’s your middle initial?” my companion asked.
“R,” I said.
“That’s what the name said,” he replied. “I’ll go get them for you.”
He returned a moment later and handed me a Bible with my name in faded gold letters on the front. I recognized it immediately. I struggled to unzip the old black cover. The book fell open to the first page, which bore a note in my father’s handwriting. I was holding the Bible that my parents had given me for my 12th birthday.
I was now living in Arizona, and the last time I had seen this Bible, I was living in Utah, preparing for a mission. I took my seminary set of scriptures with me to the mission field and left this Bible home. I found the odds staggering that my old Bible could have somehow made its way, over the course of 30 years, from my parents’ home in Utah to my ward building in Arizona.
My father, a student of the scriptures, instilled in me at an early age a desire to read and study the word of God. A portion of the note he wrote in my Bible gave me counsel as a preface to my receiving the Aaronic Priesthood:
“David, on this, your 12th birthday, you will receive the priesthood of Aaron as a deacon and become a servant of the Lord, even as your namesake, David the king. As he behaved himself wisely, the Lord blessed him.
“So shall it be with you. If you will behave yourself wisely and follow the Lord, He will bless you and call you to serve Him.
“Be strong and faithful, Son. Study this book diligently, and it will give you strength.”
My father’s words are as meaningful to me now as they were 30 years ago, perhaps even more so. How grateful I am to have again received the gift of my first Bible with the timeless counsel of my father.

“I have heard that only 2 percent of the population is born with extraordinary talent. Most people have to work to become good!
“Let me give an illustration: Half a century ago a boy of ten was working in Naples in a factory. He longed to be a singer, but his first teacher discouraged him.
“‘You can’t sing,’ he said. ‘You haven’t any voice at all. It sounds like shutters.’ But his mother, a poor peasant woman, put her arms around him and told him she knew he could sing. She could see an improvement already, and she went barefoot in order to save money to pay for his music lessons. That peasant mother’s praise and encouragement changed her boy’s life. He was to become one of the world’s greatest tenors. His name was Caruso.
“You mustn’t give false praise, but instead, be like this mother and find the good. Then give your sister the genuine praise that she seeks.”
Bruce Wendell BarkerJacksonville, North Carolina