Gospel Story Finder

I was channeling my inner superspy. The problem was, I’d been doing that all week and it hadn’t worked out very well so far.
I stood with my friends on a grassy hillside far removed from civilization. Stretched between this hill and the next was a thick steel cable that ran 40 yards (37 meters). The cable hung 6 feet (2 meters) above the ground, spanned a small valley between the hills, and had a downward slant.
In other words, it was the perfect cable to slide down in spy-like glory. My friends and I had no idea why the cable was there in the first place. We only knew that a most manly destiny was calling loudly. We were there to heed the call.
And yet, that stubborn cable wasn’t cooperating. Turns out we needed more than blindingly awesome courage and determination to accomplish our goal. We needed something to help us slide down. Our first two attempts that week hadn’t resulted in our sliding more than a few feet before friction stopped us cold.
But that didn’t discourage us. My friend had an old 10-speed bike that he donated to the cause for our third attempt. His theory was that if we removed the front handlebars, spokes, and wheel from the rest of the frame, we could place the rim (tube and tire removed) on top of the cable. Then, wrench in hand, we could attach the handlebar and front spokes to the wheel by aiming them up around the underside of the cable. It was a giant pulley.
I was to be the guinea pig lucky person to try out our complex mechanism first. So there I stood, channeling my inner spy and poised and ready to earn some manly bragging points. I gripped the handlebars, took a deep breath, and howled in excitement while lifting my feet.
In milliseconds the other hillside started rushing toward me. Wind whipped through my hair as I flew across the gap between hills. I slammed into the far side with enough impact to steal the air from my lungs. I jumped to my feet, dusted myself off, and yelled to my friends, “You guys gotta try this thing!”
Only … most of my friends didn’t want to try the spy cable after seeing how my flight ended. Truth be told, nor did I after that excellent-but-wild ride. As exciting as the trip down had been, the jolting stop at the end was anything but fun.

When I was in first grade, I got bumps on my arm and leg. The bumps were itchy and lasted for months and months. My mom took me to the doctor, and he put medicine on them to heal. The medicine created huge blisters—bigger than quarters! They hurt and burned. I couldn’t move my arm or leg. I cried a lot. I spent days on the couch, scared to get up. My mom had to carry me to the bathroom. I had to miss two weeks of swimming lessons and other activities with my friends. It was hard not to go swimming.
One day, my mom needed to take me to urgent care because the blisters had an infection. I was so scared. I didn’t want to get in the car. My mom knew I was scared. She told me about when Joseph Smith was my age. When Joseph Smith was seven years old, he had an illness that required the doctor to do surgery on his leg. He was scared too, but he knew that Heavenly Father was with him and would help him. The doctor took nine pieces of bone out of his leg! I was so surprised. He was brave. If he could do that, I knew that I could get in the car and go to the doctor. I would be brave, and Heavenly Father would help me with the pain I was feeling.
Little by little, the blisters went away. I was finally healed completely. I learned that whenever I’m scared, Jesus will always be with me. I can be brave with hard things.

I recalled the day some years earlier when I picked up the telephone to hear the familiar voice of President Spencer W. Kimball, who carefully extended a call to me to serve as a mission president.
After the telephone call, I was troubled with great feelings of inadequacy. My wife and I were yet in our 30s, with a young family of six children. I remembered the deep love and respect that I felt and still feel for my mission president. Could President Kimball have made a mistake? Did they really understand who I was?
A few days later, we were granted an appointment with Elder Rex D. Pinegar. We explained to him our feelings. I will always remember Elder Pinegar’s answer: “Brother Brough, have you a testimony as to the divine calling of our prophets and other Church leaders?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “From my earliest childhood, I have believed in the sacred callings of our Church leaders. From the deepest part of my soul, I believe President Spencer W. Kimball to be a prophet.”
Elder Pinegar then said, “Now you must gain a testimony as to the divine nature of your own calling. You must come to know that you also have been called of God.”
Paul the Apostle had gained a personal testimony of his own “holy calling” and also that of Timothy. He declared that God “hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began” (2 Tim. 1:9).
This powerful personal witness would require Timothy to “be [a] partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God” (2 Tim. 1:8).
As Kami and I read this scripture together, I could see that she very much wanted to understand. I wanted her to know that there can be some “afflictions” associated with our callings in the Church. We talked about being away from our home and family members. I understood it was difficult for her to adjust to these new surroundings.
It was obvious, however, that I was still short of my objective when she asked, “But, Daddy, why did we ‘get choosed’ and not someone else?” Now that is a much more difficult question. Why do these callings and responsibilities come to some and not to others? I was reminded of the charge President Hinckley gave me upon my ordination as a Seventy. He said: “Brother Brough, now a lot of people are going to say a lot of nice things about you. Don’t believe them!”
It is very dangerous for any of us to think we have earned the right to a Church calling. However, every member must come to know the sacred nature of his or her own service in the Church. I remember my Primary teacher, Sister Mildred Jacobson, who I believe was divinely called to her position of responsibility. Two bishops, Bishop Lynn McKinnon and Bishop Ross Jackson, who served during my youth, played significant roles in the lives of many. I believe they were called of God in the same process of revelation as were Paul and Timothy.
We must each prepare ourselves for every good work that might come to us and then accept the principle that revelation, not aspiration, is the basis for our respective callings. We can learn much from the following New Testament story:
“Then came to him the mother of Zebedee’s children with her sons, worshipping him, and desiring a certain thing of him.
“… She saith unto him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on thy right hand, and the other on the left, in thy kingdom” (Matt. 20:20–21).
I explained to Kami that Zebedee’s children were the Apostles James and John, who would later sit with Peter, one on his right hand and the other on his left. Then we read together how Jesus answered the devoted mother: “To sit on my right hand, and on my left, is not mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of my Father” (Matt. 20:23).
The Apostles also were taught concerning their important calling when Jesus reminded them, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you” (John 15:16).
I explained to Kami that we definitely had been chosen because we would not seek such a challenging assignment. This was reinforced just a few days later when Sister Brough and I were assigned to travel to India for a missionary conference. The flight from Hong Kong to New Delhi, India, was a late-night flight that arrived in New Delhi at about two o’clock in the morning. Even at that late hour, there were hundreds of taxi drivers who wanted to provide our transportation. After selecting a driver, we began our journey of about 40 kilometers to the hotel. Even though it was late, the roads were crowded with animals, people, and other vehicles. As we were going through an intersection, the taxi’s motor quit. I watched with increasing anxiety as the driver fruitlessly attempted to start the motor. Finally, in obvious frustration, the driver turned to me and in his very best English said, “Push taxi!” It was three o’clock in the morning, and my wife and I were very tired. I got out of the taxi and tried to push it across the intersection but was not able to do so. The driver then said to my wife, “Push taxi.” Lanette got out of the car and began to help me push the taxi through the intersection. As we were struggling to get the taxi through the traffic, I said to my wife, “There were a few things we didn’t understand when we were given this assignment.”
I shall never forget the experience we had in June of 1993 at a special meeting in Beijing, China, with couples who were then teaching English in North Vietnam and Mongolia. After two days of training and inspiration, we closed with this familiar song:
It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea,
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me.
(“I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go,” Hymns, no. 270)
As we were singing, my wife leaned over and whispered in my ear: “But it might be ‘on the mountain height,’ or it might be ‘over the stormy sea,’ or it might be ‘at the battle’s front.’” The Lord surely had need for these beautiful people serving in this interesting area of the world. These wonderful missionary couples did not choose to come to these countries. Yet as we now look at the results of their service, I know that they were chosen by the Lord for their special calling.
On four different occasions, Sister Brough and I and our family have excitedly opened the envelope containing the mission call and assignment for one of our children. Each time, we have contemplated with excitement the various possibilities for their service. While preferences were expressed, the moment their eyes saw the words “You are hereby assigned to serve in the (blank) mission,” without exception a wonderful feeling of good and right came over each family member. We each knew that a prophet had guided a divine selection process to which four of our children have gladly responded. Tens of thousands of returned missionaries can also testify of this process and the divine inspiration of their own missionary calling.
I never completely satisfied little Kami’s question that night. Over the years, we have recalled that challenging evening when a small child was a bit overwhelmed with life. We have explored other scriptures and many other stories since that time. We have received the wonderful promise to those the Savior had chosen “that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it [to] you” (John 15:16).
That promise—of answer to our prayers—is directed even to a small child. This was reaffirmed recently when I heard Kami, now 15 years old, respond to a question directed to her by an adult friend: “How come you were so lucky to live in Hong Kong when you were a child?” She looked directly at me as she gave her answer to our friend: “It wasn’t luck; we ‘were chosen.’”
That personal and prophetic revelation is the foundation upon which our Church service is firmly based is my witness, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I remember one day going to my office and seeing outside the door of the faculty person next to me (a bishop) a young lady with a distraught look on her face. She waited and kept knocking on this door for some time, but my colleague was out. There was something about her appearance that was compelling to me, and so I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt, but you look distraught. Is there anything that I can do?”
She said, “I’m waiting for Brother So-and-so. He’s my bishop, and he seems to be out.”
I said, “Is there anything I can do?” So she came into my office, we talked, and I found that this young lady was a cousin of mine, a woman of about 38. When she found that we were kin, the tragic story of her life began to unfold. I began to see the despair and the disappointment and the frustration and the hopelessness that she was experiencing at that point in her life—single, never married, distraught, worried about her future. Later, she undoubtedly received help from her bishop, but I as a kinsman tried to work for a period of months in a helping relationship with her, to talk with her, to sustain her, to counsel her as best I could. She finally decided that it was best that she go back with her family and help take care of her mother, who was an invalid. So she went home and was somehow able to put off her despair, invest herself intently again into the affairs of those things spiritual. Then came the time when I received a telephone call and later an announcement that she had met a young man whose wife had died and left him with five children. I was able to greet her in the temple when she was sealed to her companion and became the instant mother of five children. I have hope that at certain points my strength might have been a help to others. I pray that the strength you may have might be a help to those who are faltering in their race of life.

I could almost feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunched the rocks and churned the dust in the deeply rutted trail. It was an evening like many others during my teenage years in Paris, but on this particular night I was absorbed in a French television documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I had never seen anything like it before, and I marveled at the similarities between the Mormon trek and the exodus of ancient Israel from Egypt. The courage and suffering of the Mormon pioneers touched something deep within me.
I had never heard of the Mormons before, and I became interested in learning about them. But I soon became distracted by my busy life as a student and forgot the soft stirrings within me. Besides, I was only intellectually curious, or so I told myself. Little did I know then how the turning of those pioneer wagon wheels would change my life.
My mother worked in a fashion boutique in Paris and liked the Americans she met there. She grew to love the English language and encouraged me to study English even as a young child. During the summers, she sent me to England or Scotland to stay with English-speaking families. One year she encouraged me to get involved in an American summer camp exchange program. Through this program I became a camp counselor in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of Joseph Smith. Perhaps the Lord, even then, was trying to turn the wheels once more. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of Joseph Smith or the Mormons while I was there.
Several years later, however, the wheels turned again, with great power. I was studying English, with a specific focus on American culture, at Paris’s Sorbonne University. As I began thinking about a master’s thesis topic, I remembered the documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I asked my adviser if I could do something on them. No one at the Sorbonne had written a thesis about the Mormons, and so my adviser thought the subject might prove interesting. But he insisted that I pick an aspect of Mormonism that was unique.
After doing some preliminary research, I discovered that there was not enough information about the Mormons in the university library. I concluded I would have to talk to them. By then I had learned that the official name of the Mormon Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. With that information, I located the headquarters of the Paris Mission and boldly knocked on the front door. I asked the missionary who answered, “Is there someone here who can tell me about the Mormons?”
The surprised young man managed to stutter, “Yes, yes, come in!”
As my research at the mission home progressed, I learned that Latter-day Saints believe in ordinances performed for dead ancestors. The more I read about temple work for the dead, the more I wanted to use that topic. The title I finally chose for my thesis was enough to make even long-time members of the Church pause: “Genealogy and the Mormon Church.” That’s how I became known in the Paris Mission as the “Genealogy Girl.”
It was at this point, just two months after my first visit to the mission home, that I met my future husband. He was a freelance American photographer and writer traveling in France. The missionaries told him about me, and he decided to interview me for a possible article for the Church magazines. After talking with me about the Church, he asked if I had ever considered joining. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m really just curious.”
But as an afterthought, I reflected, “There is something unusual about your church. I always feel a sense of peace when I come to the mission home. Actually, I welcome reasons to come back.” Still, I insisted that my interest was only academic curiosity.
A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.
During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”
One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”
I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.
Now it is 1997, the 150th anniversary of the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley, and as I tell my story I truly do feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunch the rocks and churn the dust in a deeply rutted trail. It is a day like many others, and I am pulling a handcart as part of the 1997 Sesquicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train on the old historic pioneer route near Big Sandy Crossing, Wyoming. During this reenactment, I am playing the part of an actual pioneer girl from France who joined the Church in Italy and came to Zion in the 1850s. It seems incredible that I am walking the same trail, breathing the same dust, and hearing the same sounds as she and so many other pioneers did so long ago.
As I walk, I remember the documentary I saw when I was a young girl in France, and I can feel the presence of the many Latter-day Saints who lived and died along this trail. However, the part I am playing is not just a story from our pioneer past, it is also my story—for I am a pioneer, too.

Faneva looked out the window at the busy street outside his house. He could see people pulling carts of vegetables, rice, cloth, and other goods to sell. He could hear car horns honking and dogs barking. Then he heard another sound.
“Mama, someone is knocking!” Faneva called out. Mama opened the door. Two young men wearing suits and ties were on the doorstep. Faneva had never seen anyone dressed like that in his neighborhood in Madagascar before.
“We are missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” one of them said. “We teach people about Jesus. Can we share a message with you?”
Faneva was excited when Mama invited them inside. The whole family gathered to hear about Jesus Christ and how His Church was on earth again.
After that day, the missionaries visited Faneva’s family many times. They brought a book called Book of Mormon Stories. Faneva loved reading it with his family!
Someday I will be a missionary and share the Book of Mormon with others, Faneva said to himself.
Another time when the missionaries came, they taught Faneva’s family how to pray. Faneva learned that he could talk to Heavenly Father anytime, anywhere.
Someday I will be a missionary and teach people about prayer, Faneva thought.
One day the missionaries had an important question.
“Will you follow the example of Jesus Christ and be baptized?” one of them asked.
Faneva felt happy in his heart. “Yes!” he said.
“Yes!” his brother and Mama said.
Papa said that he wasn’t ready to be baptized yet. But he was OK if the rest of the family was baptized. And so they were! Faneva was baptized by one of the missionaries who had taught him about Jesus.
Someday I will be a missionary and help people get baptized, Faneva thought.
One of the best parts of being a member of the Church was going to Primary. Faneva loved the activities and meeting new friends. But his favorite thing of all was singing Primary songs. One Sunday in Primary, they were singing songs about sharing the gospel.
“I want to be a missionary now,” Faneva sang. “I don’t want to wait until I’m grown.”
I can start doing missionary work now, Faneva realized. I don’t have to wait until someday!
From then on, Faneva looked for ways he could share the gospel. He tried to be a good example. He invited people to church. He helped his neighbors. After a few years, he was old enough to help the missionaries teach people in his city. In a few more years, he served a mission himself—meeting new people and sharing the gospel, just as the missionaries had shared with him.

In January 1844, Joseph Smith announced his candidacy for President of the United States, but on June 27, Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail. The next morning their bodies were placed in two wagons, covered with branches to shade them, then driven to Nauvoo. They arrived in Nauvoo about three o’clock in the afternoon and were met by huge crowds of silent people. It was the saddest day Nauvoo or the Church had ever known.
John Taylor, who was with Joseph at Carthage, wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” (D&C 135:3).
Many of the anti-Mormons thought that Joseph’s death would bring an end to the Church, but it did not. The Saints knew that the Church was God’s Church, not Joseph’s, and so they carried on God’s work. Instead of dying out, the Church continued to grow. What the mobs did not understand was that the faith of the Saints was much stronger than their fear.

On November 1, 1857, Elder George A. Smith delivered a memorable discourse, which included this old Chinese fable:
“A man travelling through the country came to a large city, very rich and splendid; he looked at it and said to his guide, ‘This must be a very righteous people, for I can only see but one little devil in this great city.’
“The guide replied, ‘You do not understand, sir. This city is so perfectly given up to wickedness … that it requires but one devil to keep them all in subjection.’
“Travelling on a little farther, he came to a rugged path and saw an old man trying to get up the hill side, surrounded by seven great, big, coarse-looking devils.
“‘Why,’ says the traveller, ‘this must be a tremendously wicked old man! See how many devils there are around him!’
“‘This,’ replied the guide, ‘is the only righteous man in the country; and there are seven of the biggest devils trying to turn him out of his path, and they all cannot do it.’” (Journal of Discourses, 5:363–64.)
After relating the fable, Elder Smith added that “the devil has the world so perfectly at his disposal that it requires few devils to keep it in subjection” and that “the whole legion of devils has nothing to do but look after the ‘Mormons’ and stir up the hearts of the children of men to destroy them—to put them out of existence.” (Journal of Discourses, 5:364.)

I am a banana seller and a graduate of policy studies and administration from the University of Calabar, Nigeria.
I worked with my certificate as a degree holder but was underemployed, my salary at the end of the month was not enough to take care of my basic needs so I quit the job to sell bananas.
When I was introduced to the self-reliance devotional, I found it very interesting and I joined the Starting and Growing My Business group.
During my group meeting, I learned a lot of principles that enabled me to start my own business.
Some of the principles I learned that have made my business successful are:
Payment of tithes.
Fasting and praying for the progress of my business.
Spiritual self-reliance (my faith has grown tremendously in the Lord)
Networking for clients (I have an umbrella shop. I also hawk my goods)
I have an expense book for cash in and cash out reports.
I have developed daily savings.
I have a salary from my business.
Now I can afford my basic needs, provide for those around me, and have enough time to plan for myself and my business.
The experience I gained during my group meeting has blessed my life, and I have encouraged everyone around me to join any of the self-reliance groups to also experience a change in their lives.
I may not be fully self-reliant now, but from my efforts, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

One young lady had a missionary experience that started on a shopping spree.
“A couple of weeks ago my mother and I were talking to the owner of a dress shop, and my mother was hinting around about how I had to wear my dresses long, and the lady didn’t say anything. Then my mother said, ‘It’s really cold where she’s going next fall.’ The lady said, ‘Oh, where’s that?’ Mom answered, ‘Brigham Young University.’ Then we talked a little bit about the Church, and the lady asked, ‘How does a person go about becoming a Mormon?’ My mother answered, ‘It’s easy.’
“We were interrupted right then, but we went back the next day so I could try on an outfit I had liked. We were trying to think of a way to start talking about the Church again when the lady walked over and said, ‘Do you remember what you said yesterday about it being easy to become a Mormon?’ My mother tried to look nonchalant and said, ‘Yes?’ The lady said, ‘Well, will you please explain that?’
“So we sat there talking for about three hours about the Church, and she just kept asking questions. She and her husband had gone to church after church after church, and nothing satisfied them. Every time we answered a question, she said, ‘That’s just what I’ve always believed.’ I think she had a testimony already, before she ever heard about the Church. So now she and her husband are taking missionary lessons, and I think she wants to be baptized. It’s pretty exciting.”

“Families can be together forever through Heavenly Father’s plan,” Jessica and her cousins sang at their grandmother’s funeral. It was a sad day for Jessica because she would miss Grandma Tolley. She enjoyed the time they had spent together working in the garden, going for walks, and having weekend sleepovers. But it was also a joyous day because Jessica knew that Grandma had longed to be reunited with Grandpa, who had passed away 17 years before.
Later that day, Jessica and her mother drove to the cemetery to visit the grave site. “The roses and carnations look so beautiful,” Mom said.
“They smell terrific.” Jessica sniffed a pink rose.
“I’m sure Grandma was pleased with all the family and friends who came today. She enjoyed helping others and loved all people. The beautiful flowers show they loved her, too,” Mom said.
Jessica thought for a moment. Then she said, “At the funeral, Aunt Diane said that ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was Grandma’s favorite song. Why was a Primary song her favorite?”
Mom smiled. “I’m going to let Grandma answer that question for you.”
“How can Grandma answer my question when she isn’t here anymore?” Jessica asked.
“We’ll stop by her house on the way home, and I’ll show you,” Mom answered.
As Jessica walked into Grandma’s house, it was dark and quiet. Quickly she turned on a light. Everything was still in its usual place. There were pictures of Jessica and her cousins hanging on the walls. A cherished afghan was folded neatly over the back of the couch.
Mom opened a small closet door. After a bit of searching, she pulled out a pile of worn notebooks.
“What are those?” Jessica asked.
“Grandma wrote in these notebooks throughout her life. They were her journals. There is one here that will answer your question.” Mom glanced through a few of the notebooks before she located the one she wanted. She handed it to Jessica. “As you read what Grandma wrote, you’ll find out why ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was her favorite song.”
The next day was Saturday, and Jessica got right to work doing her chores and practicing her piano lessons. She even skipped watching cartoons so she could have more time for Grandma’s journal. Opening to the first page, she began to read.
Jessica was surprised. She had always thought her grandma and grandpa had been married in the temple. For as long as Jessica could remember, Grandma Tolley had done temple work each week with her friends. Temple work had been very important to her, and she had talked about it often.
All afternoon, Jessica continued to read. She was amazed at how hard Grandma had worked each day. She hung the laundry out on the line to dry. She carried buckets of coal down to the basement to burn in the furnace. She sewed clothes, planted and cared for a large garden, made her own bread, spent time with her daughters, and still did things to help other people. Jessica also enjoyed learning about what her mother was like as a little girl.
Jessica was so absorbed in the journal that she didn’t hear her mother come into the room. “Looks like you’ve been doing some reading.”
“Yes, I have,” Jessica said. “I didn’t know that Grandma wasn’t married in the temple. I think it would be hard to know that after this life you would no longer be together as a family.”
“It was hard for Grandma,” Mom said.
“But that doesn’t explain why ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was her favorite song,” Jessica said.
“Keep reading.” Mom smiled as she left the room.
Jessica read until late in the afternoon. As she neared the end of the notebook, she was a little discouraged at not finding the answer she had been looking for. When she was about to stop for the day, Jessica decided to read one more entry.
“Have you discovered the answer?” Mom asked that evening at dinner.
“I think so,” Jessica replied. “Grandma loved her family very much. But because she was not married in the temple, her family wouldn’t always be together. Grandma prayed and worked toward the day they could go to the temple. The song must have reminded her of the day she was sealed to her family.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you sing that song when you were in Primary?” Jessica asked.
“No, ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ hadn’t been written yet when I was in Primary. Several years after Grandpa passed away, Grandma heard the Primary children sing it in sacrament meeting. She felt the Spirit so strongly that she was sure Heavenly Father was speaking right to her. Grandma loved the words because they gave her comfort in knowing that her family could be together forever.”
That night as Jessica knelt in prayer, she thanked Heavenly Father for a wonderful grandma. She also promised to live worthily to go to the temple. She wanted the blessing of an eternal family and the opportunity to be with Grandma Tolley again someday.

After 34 years in the Church Educational System, my wife and I decided about three years ago to retire and set our feet on some different paths in life. At that point we began to make plans. We changed our residence to be closer to children and grandchildren. I began to develop what I thought were some wonderful projects. Some were absolutely brilliant, I thought. And then one of those pivotal moments in life happened.
It was our privilege at that time to be living across the street from Elder F. Enzio Busche, now an emeritus Seventy, and his wife. One day Elder Busche taught our high priests quorum, and he cited a scripture in the book of Alma where Alma longs to have the voice of an angel. Then Alma immediately repents of those feelings, and in verse four makes a remarkable statement. He suggests that we have to be careful what we desire, for the Lord grants unto us the desires of our heart. And then came what was to me almost a stunning statement: “Whether they be unto salvation or unto destruction.” God will grant unto us, according to our will, the things which we desire (see Alma 29:1–5).
I went home that day—and it’s not that I felt any of my desires were wrong—but in that moment I realized that those desires were mine. That day I began to try to let the Lord know that what I’d like to do is fulfill His desires. Even then, I thought I really meant it, but I came to know that that’s an easy thing to say and a difficult thing to do. As Elder Maxwell said yesterday, only when we truly yield our hearts to God can He begin to accelerate the purification and the sanctification and the perfecting process (see Hel. 3:35). We have found in the three years that have come since that time that the Lord has set our feet on different paths than we expected, and this one is the latest.
Just the other day, after President Hinckley called my wife and me, I was reading in the book of Deuteronomy and found a verse in the 12th chapter that came to mean a lot to me. It’s put in the form of a commandment. The Lord says, “Thou shalt rejoice before the Lord thy God in all that thou puttest thine hands unto” (Deut. 12:18). We are grateful for this privilege to rejoice in the Lord at this new opportunity.
Since starting on those paths, we have come to learn how truly merciful God is, how deeply He loves us, and how perfectly compelling His love is for us. When I was 16 years old and not smart enough to know very much at all, the Spirit touched my heart and I realized the significance of the woman that you marry. Starting at that time I began to pray that the Lord would find for me the woman who would be my eternal companion. Those prayers were answered, and all that we now enjoy in our family with children and grandchildren is largely responsible to her.
I’ve come to know that Jesus is our Christ, that His and the Father’s mercies are infinite and never ending, even when we’re not deserving. I’ve always loved the Prophet Joseph Smith, but it was my privilege to spend about 10 years in an intensive and extensive study of his life, of his writings, of his teachings, and of those who knew and loved him, and I came to know that here is a prophet of prophets, one who was worthy to bring about the Restoration of this last great dispensation. And I’ve come to know with great power that those keys that he restored have continued unbroken to this day and now reside in our living prophet, even Gordon B. Hinckley.
Again, we rejoice in this opportunity to serve. We are deeply humbled and greatly honored, and I leave that testimony with you in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I accepted a mission call to the California Anaheim Mission, I had to leave one of my most prized possessions at home: my violin. Why? I wondered. Didn’t the Lord realize how much I love to play for people and how music can touch the soul?
One Sunday I felt even worse about the loss of my instrument when a woman stood up in testimony meeting and told of a spiritual experience she had had while listening to Yehudi Menuin, a world-class violinist, perform at a nearby cathedral.
My heart sank as she described in detail the priceless violin that he played, the beauty of the cathedral, and how thousands of people moved by his music jumped to a standing ovation at the close of the performance.
I could have been there, I thought bitterly. The cathedral is just down the street. I wondered where I had been as the great musician had performed—getting a door slammed in my face? Being told I was nosy by the people we tried to contact in the park? Trying to answer the questions of a skeptical Protestant Sunday school teacher who misunderstood the beauties of the gospel? I wondered where I would have been if I had had a choice.
As these regrets crowded my thoughts, I reflected on my experiences as a missionary. I remembered teaching Bob about the gospel and testifying that his family could be together forever if he would pray and take the steps needed toward baptism. I remembered feeling a burning inside as the words poured out of my mouth.
I played a beat-up, borrowed violin at Bob’s baptism. No concerto—just a well-loved Church hymn. No cathedral—just a small room crowded with Bob’s friends and family. No applause after the music ended—just an outpouring of the Holy Ghost upon those in the room. I knew this experience was of much greater worth to me.
When the woman finished bearing her testimony, I stood up and expressed to the congregation how thankful I was to be a missionary. I thanked the Lord for showing me that I must learn to be his humble instrument, not a maestro seeking applause. Little did I realize that the Lord was asking me to give up my violin in order to make me his instrument, not the player.
The words of Alma rang true to me: “I know that which the Lord hath commanded me, and I glory in it. … and this is my glory, that perhaps I may be an instrument in the hands of God to bring some soul to repentance; and this is my joy” (Alma 29:9).

While I was serving as mission president in Scotland from 1975 to 1978, the Church had much opposition and criticism. On one occasion three ministers made derogatory statements publicly in a particular city. I wrote an open letter to the local newspaper announcing that we would be holding a public meeting there to dispel some of the misunderstandings which were being voiced around. It was a wonderful meeting. We first showed the fine Church filmstrip Meet the Mormons, and then I spoke to the large group concerning our beliefs and way of life. When we opened the meeting for questions, a number of people who were not members of the Church stood and said kind things about the Church and the Latter-day Saints they knew. Positive results ensued, and the work moved forward.

I suppose most kids dream about being rich. When I was little, I’d mooch along looking for money on the sidewalk. As I grew, so did my dreams. I’d think, “What if I see an unmarked envelope dropped into the weeds, and it’s stuffed with thousand dollar bills?” Since there would be no way to find the owner, I could keep the whole wad.
I quit looking for sudden wealth, because the most I ever found was a dime, which a bigger kid took away from me, and I began to think about relatives.
What if a great aunt or uncle died and, come to find out, they were not only secretly rich but—even more secretly—I’d been their favorite nephew, and they left me with a bundle.
But since my relatives ignored me, mostly, except to ask, “What are you studying in school?” I decided to treasure hunt.
I’d daydream about going out with a crew, and we’d find a Spanish galleon loaded with gold which had sunk off the coast of Quintana Roo, or I’d fancy myself fighting my way gamely up the Amazon River, where I’d stumble across an emerald mine.
By the time I was 16, I’d about given up my dreams of wealth, and then Mr. Boyd moved in next door.
Dad said the freeway took the elderly widower’s home, so he bought the house which had stood empty for a couple of months. It was a pleasant place, quiet, shaded by old trees and lilac bushes.
Mom said the rumor that got started about Mr. Boyd being rich had variations like a Bach prelude and was more fanciful. She said she was sure Mr. Boyd had as much money as the rest of us—just barely not enough—but I knew better.
To be sure, the car he drove wheezed like an elephant with the croup, and although he looked neat, with his bushy white hair and clear blue eyes, he sure didn’t dress like a millionaire, at least not like I’d dress if I had a bunch of money cornered.
Still, the vibes I got from Mr. Boyd convinced me he was an eccentric who had funds squirreled away in banks all over town. And when I found out he didn’t have any living relatives except for a lady cousin who lived in Arizona somewhere, I decided to become Mr. Boyd’s next of kin through adoption.
The way I had it figured, I would be underfoot in such a persistently helpful and noticeably warm-hearted way that I couldn’t help but be lovable.
I about wore out my eyes watching Mr. Boyd, waiting for chances to be helpful, although what I got in return were corner-eyed looks which told me he hadn’t been around teenagers for maybe 200 years. I could just feel the elderly man thinking I was a pill freak who roared around on a bike when I wasn’t lurking on street corners waiting to snatch purses from tottery old ladies.
That attitude irritated me. I wanted Mr. Boyd to notice I didn’t even own a motorcycle. I’m not big on them. And since he saw me in priesthood meeting every Sunday I felt he should know I wasn’t into drugs or alcohol. But since he never spoke to me, I couldn’t think of any clever way to tell him I could get a high—a near heaven kind of high—from listening to a Liszt rhapsody or looking at dew on rose leaves.
But for three months Mr. Boyd barely nodded to me except for the time I trimmed our side of the hedge, then went around and trimmed his too. Then he did say, “Thanks,” but nervously.
I sighed, because after he said “Thanks” he hurried into his house, and I noticed that the way I happened to be holding the hedge clippers looked a lot more threatening than lovable.
I decided I’d have to change tactics if I was ever going to make myself adoptable, so I began to wait for Mr. Boyd’s car to limp into his driveway. Then I’d dash over to carry his grocery bags, or what ever, into his kitchen. I’d try to make conversation with remarks like, “Awesome day, right? Sort of majestically inspirational,” and he’d look at me like I’d just stepped out of a UFO.
Dad was pleased with me because I was trying to be nice to Mr. Boyd, although of course he didn’t know about my plan. Dad said, “Your neighborly acts are very commendable, David, and don’t get discouraged if Mr. Boyd doesn’t warm up to you right away.” He’d remind me that adolescents take so much getting used to that by the time an adult gets used to them, they aren’t adolescents anymore. That didn’t cheer me up a whole lot.
Still, I went on playing it cool with one ear cocked for the sound of opportunity knocking, which I heard from half a block away one afternoon—a knock from Mr. Boyd’s car, which was then taken with a severe coughing spell at the corner, where it gave up the ghost.
My trigger-quick mind sent me rushing to his aid. While Mr. Boyd steered, I pushed his deceased automobile into his driveway. When the old man got out he said mournfully, “Guess the old crate’s done for.”
I almost asked, “Why not buy a new one?” but I was afraid that would let him know I knew he was secretly loaded. Instead, using my bright and most lovable tone of voice I said, “Let me work on your car, sir. I’m sure I can revive it.”
Actually, motorized objects and I have no special rapport, but Dad thinks an education should be well rounded. His notion had me taking a class in auto mechanics, so I was able to get Mr. Boyd’s car running again.
I had my head under the hood one afternoon, whistling loudly while I gave the spark plugs a final check, when Mr. Boyd went “Harrumph!” just behind my right ear. The sound startled me so much I gave a leap and banged my head smartly on the hood. I was still seeing afternoon stars when Mr. Boyd demanded, “Is that Rossini you’re whistling?”
Rubbing my dented head I said, “Yes, sir. The Thieving Magpie Overture.”
“Good gracious!” Mr. Boyd stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra nose. “You mean you know opera?”
A bit miffed I said, “Why not? Dad’s a music professor at the university. Opera and classical music got piped into my bassinet.”
Then, for the first time, I saw Mr. Boyd smile. He said, “I thought kids nowadays never listened to anything but that loud noise you call stone.”
“Rock, sir. Anyway, some of that music is very good, Mr. Boyd. There are quite a few groups who really know about music, and I like them, but I prefer Beethoven, Vivaldi, Wagner …”
“Have you ever heard of Enrico Caruso?” Mr. Boyd interrupted, his blue eyes fixed anxiously on my face.
“Sure. Dad says Caruso was about the greatest tenor opera ever had.”
“Come inside.”
Mr. Boyd trotted toward his house. I followed, wondering what had gotten into him.
The living room of the house was cool, quiet, high ceilinged. Heavy furniture rested on a carpet with roses woven into a soft pattern. Mr. Boyd walked briskly to a corner and put his hand on a tall, boxy object.
“This,” he told me, “is a Victrola which still works.” After he explained that a Victrola is a sort of old-time stereo, he told me he had records for it that were priceless, and the most valuable of the old recordings were those done by Caruso.
Carefully he removed a brittle, black record from a paper envelope, cranked the machine with a handle, and then for the first time I heard the voice of Enrico Caruso. Was he something! Mr. Boyd said that since he could tell I appreciated good music I was welcome anytime he was home to come over and listen to his records.
I grinned. At last! Mr. Boyd was going to get to know me.
One evening I was sitting in front of his Victrola, enjoying the fringe benefits of Caruso, when Mr. Boyd came out of his bedroom carrying a photograph album. He looked edgy, old, and there was a loneliness in his eyes deeper than usual when he asked, like he expected me to back off, if I’d like to see his family pictures.
The truth is I wanted to back off. I had to remind myself sternly about the hard work I’d already put in to make myself lovingly adoptable before I could put the proper enthusiasm in my voice when I cried, “I’d enjoy that!” I jumped right up to sit beside the old man on what he called the “davenport.”
I don’t know where the evening went. Who would have dreamed that a peaceful-appearing man like Mr. Boyd could have lived a life of such high adventure?
He’d been raised in southeastern Utah. By the time he was my age he was already running the Colorado River in a canoe, and that was before they dammed those violent waters. He’d been sheriff of a county bigger than some states. He’d been member of a rescue posse that patrolled the wild Canyonlands, and he’d served as a stake missionary on the Navajo reservation.
He told me about so many exciting adventures that I had goosebumps all over. That evening he showed me only a few of his family pictures, but he did tell me that his wife had died ten years earlier, and that their only child, a son, had been pilot of a B-17 bomber during World War II, and that he had been shot down over Italy.
“Missing in action,” Mr. Boyd said. An old sorrow dimmed his eyes. “Thirty-three years have gone by, and never a word about what happened to our Dan.”
I don’t know if he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but I knew the lump in my own throat was still there when I went to bed that night.
From then on I hardly bothered to knock before I walked into Mr. Boyd’s house. A special feeling had developed between us. It was like, when we were together, he forgot he was 76, and I forgot I was 16. Each of us was so much aware of what thoughts and emotions were going on inside the other that what was outside didn’t matter.
I can’t remember when it finally began to dawn on me that Mr. Boyd not only didn’t have funds hidden in any banks, nor musty bills in his mattress, but that while his monthly pension check stretched far enough to cover his utilities and groceries, the covering was often skimpy.
The knowledge that my friend was anything but rich penetrated my skull for good the day I asked why he didn’t have a telephone. Smiling, Mr. Boyd said, “For one thing, son, all the people I’m interested in live no further than a brisk walk away. For another, if you let that company install a telephone they begin to expect you to pay for the use of it.”
Then one day, when Mr. Boyd and I were walking home from sacrament meeting, he cleared his throat in a way that warned me he’d been working to get up enough nerve to say whatever he was trying to get out. After another self-conscious “Harrumph!” he blurted, “Son, you got any plans to get married?”
That stopped me cold in my tracks. I squeaked, “Good grief, Mr. Boyd, I haven’t even been on a mission yet!”
He laughed in the hearty way he has that always makes me grin from the inside out. He said, “I planned to come at you slantways with that, not scare you to death, but what I’m trying to find out is if your future plans include a wife?”
I said, “Sure. But please,” I pleaded dramatically, “can I wait to get married until I find a girl?”
As we walked beside lilac bushes in bloom Mr. Boyd put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Even nice girls can be picky. Maybe the one who waits for you won’t want a lot of old relics, but,” his steps slowed, “I have a few belongings of mostly sentimental value, like my records and Victrola, a copper kettle my great-grandmother brought across the plains in a handcart, similar things I wouldn’t want just anybody to have.”
I stopped to pick a lilac because I didn’t know how I could look at Mr. Boyd when he said what I expected him to say next, which he did.
“I’m making a will, David. I’ll leave my home to Cousin Bertha, but what I own that is really important to me I want you to have.”
I studied that lilac like it was going to help me pass a botany exam, which I’d have flunked because the lavender blossoms kept going blurry on me. I was remembering how I’d schemed to become Mr. Boyd’s adopted son so I would be his heir. Now I could hardly believe I’d ever been greedy and dumb enough to think that money could have as much value as a very special friend.
Pretending a ladybug on my sleeve needed loving care I lifted the orange insect off and placed it on the sidewalk, which gave me time to get hold of myself. But I guess Mr. Boyd thought I was trying to think of how I could tell him I wasn’t interested in his keepsakes, because when he spoke again it was in a slow, explaining sort of way.
He said, “I’ve never worried a great deal about working for material goods, David. I’ve tried to live by what Jesus told us in Matthew, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’” (Matt. 6:19–20). Mr. Boyd smiled. “So I haven’t laid up many earthly treasures. I’ve felt the most important work I could do here is to learn how to get back where I came from, and to send ahead what I could.”
I looked with affection at Mr. Boyd’s face, which was lined with age but beautiful with dignified peace. How much he had taught me about what’s important in life and about what doesn’t matter very much, like money.
As his officially unadopted son, Mr. Boyd had already given me many valuable gifts, like the way I was able to understand what he meant when he spoke of treasures, and when his face took on a look of quiet happiness I knew he was thinking about his wife and his son, Danny.
I stopped to pick a few more lilacs, then caught up with Mr. Boyd.
I said, “Sir, I want you to know I’ll be proud to take care of the material things you treasured on earth. And I promise I won’t marry a girl until I know for sure she’ll appreciate them as much as I do.”
Then, with what I hoped was a courtly flourish, I held out the lilacs to Mr. Boyd. There were many tender and loving phrases tumbling around in my head that I wanted to use, but all that came out was a humble, “Thank you.”

There are other ways. Music is powerful. My older brother taught me that.

When he was flying in the Eighth Air Force, it was terrible. He was shot down twice. But he said finally he got so he was not afraid. He was not afraid because when fear came, he turned on this little orchestra in his mind. He took his favorite hymn and played it over and over in his mind.

I learned something, and I have since lived that way. When some ugly thought from the nether kingdom tries to get into my mind, I move it out with good music, hymns (see D&C 25:12).

Several years ago I went on a backpacking trip in the Teton Mountains of Wyoming with a group of young women. It was a difficult hike, and on the second day we arrived at the most dangerous part of the hike. We were going to hike along Hurricane Pass—aptly named because of the strong winds which almost always blow there. We were instructed by a ranger to stay in the center of the path, stay as low as possible on the exposed part of the trail, secure everything in our packs, and move quickly. This was no spot for photographs or for lingering. I was very relieved and happy when each one of the young women had navigated that spot successfully. And do you know—not one of them asked how close to the edge they could get!

We had a powerful experience at the beginning of our mission. We were visiting in Samoa and met Brett Macdonald, who was the Country Director at the time. He has a strong bond with Samoa and was fascinated with the early history of the Church in that country. He had researched and found interesting information. He shared with us stories about the early missionaries and how so many suffered from disease and hardship. He took us to a cemetery where these good missionaries were buried.

As we always do each week, we wrote our journal entry, including this information, and sent it to our children and a few close friends. We received a phone call very soon after from our dear friend Greg Lambert. He said, my mother's great uncle went to Samoa on a mission in the early 1900's. He died there and no one ever really knew what happened to him. If you ever run across any information about this, would you let me know. His name was Judson Tomlinson.

We wrote to Brett and asked if he had ever heard of this young missionary. Well, as a matter of fact he had. Judson Tomlinson had become ill and they took him to the mission home. The mission president and his wife cared for him and nursed him. Elder Tomlinson suffered terribly and died in the loving care of his good mission president. He was buried in the Fagali'i Cemetery.

The next time we were in Samoa, we visited that Cemetery and took a picture of Judson Tomlinson's grave. We sent it to Greg Lambert. After all these years - 106 years, Elder Monson and I were the ones to bring closure to that family. It was our great blessing to be the ones to close that gap.

I still wonder about that experience. How did that happen? One hundred years later - what if Brett hadn't told us those stories, what if we hadn't written about it in our journal, what if we hadn't sent the journal to Greg? What if another couple had been called instead of us? It's really pretty amazing, don't you think?

Kisiah enjoyed the giving machine too! Her family chose “Go Caroling” as a service project. They started by visiting a handful of ward members. Then, as they saw the grateful tears and broad smiles of those they visited, Kisiah’s family kept deciding to visit just one more house. And then another. “We wanted to spend the whole night out, but we had to cut it short because people need sleep!” she says.

When I moved into a college dormitory in Khon Kaen, Thailand, I noticed a blue book in the corner of the room. I never picked it up, and the book was still there when I moved out of the dorm many months later.
After graduating from college, I returned to my hometown of Kalasin. One day when I was visiting a friend, I saw a blue book on top of his TV—a book that reminded me of the one in my dorm room. “Where did you get that book?” I asked my friend. He said missionaries had given it to him. I said I had seen a similar book but that I didn’t know anything about it. My friend had not read it either.
Picking up the book, I finally read the words on the cover—“The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” Then, opening the book randomly and finding Jacob chapter 5, I began reading about a tame olive tree and a wild olive tree. Although I did not really understand the meaning of the allegory, reading it gave me a happy feeling.
As the days went by, I found that I wanted to read more of the book, so I returned to my friend’s house to borrow it. When I arrived, my friend was talking to two missionaries. They introduced themselves as Elder Reid and Elder Haroldsen and made an appointment to visit me. They came as promised and shared with me their belief in Heavenly Father’s plan. As they spoke, I could feel the love of the Father.
At their invitation, I attended church on Sunday. Although there were only 10 people in attendance, I felt a love for the Kalasin Branch, and I agreed to come again.
I was baptized on 21 March 1999 and soon began working with the missionaries. As I watched the missionaries trying to spread the gospel, I could feel God’s love for His children.
Two months after my baptism, my older sister gained her own testimony and was also baptized. A month later my niece was baptized too. With help from the members, our little branch soon tripled in size, with about 30 members attending church regularly.
A year after my baptism, I received a call to serve a full-time mission in Bangkok, Thailand. My older sister also received a call to serve in the same mission.
I know that it wasn’t luck or coincidence that I became a member of the Lord’s true Church. I know that Heavenly Father really has a plan for me and that He began preparing me to be a missionary from the first day I opened “that book” and read about His vineyard. What a wonderful privilege to go out into that vineyard to look for my brothers and sisters and share the book and the gospel that changed my life.