Gospel Story Finder

As the Taylor family gathered around the dinner table, Shauna knew that her mother was upset.
“I have an announcement to make,” Mother said quietly, halfway through dinner.
Shauna put her fork down and looked at her mother.
“I have come to the conclusion,” Mother declared, “that this house is haunted.”
“You mean with a ghost?” Peter asked, his eyes growing big.
Shauna thought that ghosts existed only in books and movies.
“What makes you think there’s a ghost here?” Kathy asked. “I just read an article about a house people claim is haunted, but I don’t believe in—”
“I haven’t seen a ghost,” Tim interrupted.
“It’s the only explanation left,” Mother continued. “Too many things are happening that none of us are responsible for.”
“What things?” Shauna asked for all of them. “Oh, I found wet bath towels on the floor after you children hung them up. An entire package of cookies disappeared the other day when each of you had only two.”
Shauna watched Tim’s face turn red as he squirmed in his seat.
“Then, there are the dirty dishes,” Dad added. “We know that you children always wash your dishes when you fix something to eat. But every time I come into the kitchen, I find dirty dishes all over. This ghost has been very hungry lately.”
“It’s also been sneaking into empty rooms and turning on the lights. The other day it even turned on the TV during study time,” Mother went on.
“Does anyone know who’s responsible for this?” Dad asked.
The room remained silent.
“In that case,” Dad concluded, “we must have a ghost.” Shauna thought about the “ghost” several times that evening as she finished her homework and got ready for bed. Her mother had looked very tired tonight. Maybe if the Taylor ghost were a little better behaved, things would run more smoothly for Mom and for the whole family.
No one was home when Shauna returned from school the next afternoon. She removed her backpack, dug the house key out of its side pocket, and let herself in.
The house was a mess! Breakfast dishes were still on the counter. The living room hadn’t been touched since the night before. And towels were draped everywhere in the bathroom. Obviously, Mom had not been there all day, as she usually was.
Shauna picked up a note on the kitchen table. “Dear children,” it read, “Grandma is not feeling well. I’m taking her to the doctor and then cleaning her house. Peter is going to Mrs. Pulsipher’s after school. Please pick him up. I’ll be home in time for Tim’s award banquet.”
Shauna went to pick up Peter. When they returned, Tim and Kathy were just getting home from school.
“I hope Grandma isn’t too sick,” Kathy said after reading the note.
“Me, too,” Tim said.
“This place is really a mess, isn’t it?” Shauna asked as they walked through the house to the kitchen.
Tim laughed. “It looks like the Taylor ghost and its friends have been here. Speaking of friends, I think I’ll run over to Jeff’s and pick up a book I want to read. I hope Mom didn’t forget about the muffins we have to take to the banquet tonight.”
“We can’t leave this mess for Mom,” Shauna protested.
“Get the ghost to clean it up,” Peter suggested. “That’s a good idea,” Kathy agreed.
“I’m no ghost,” Tim argued. “I’m out of here.”
“I sure hope the ghost doesn’t tell Dad that you left without doing your homework,” Shauna said as Tim opened the front door.
All right,” he groaned, returning to the kitchen. “But let’s get this over with. I don’t want to spend all afternoon playing ghost.”
Shauna and Peter went through the house putting things in their proper places. They especially made sure that all the towels were hung neatly. Tim did the dishes, while Kathy baked raisin muffins.
When all the tasks were done, Kathy helped Shauna cut out a ghost shape from a piece of white paper. They made a name tag for it; then Shauna printed TAYLOR GHOST on a label, stuck it on the ghost, and placed it on the kitchen counter next to the muffins.
The children—even Tim—gathered around the kitchen table to do their homework while they waited for their mother. Peter brought a coloring book and crayons.
It wasn’t long before the front door opened and Mother rushed into the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and looked around, astonished. Then she spied the muffins on the counter next to the ghost. “I see our ghost has been here,” she said. She walked over to the counter and picked up the paper ghost. “I like him. I hope he haunts this house forever!” She went around the table and gave everyone a big hug.
That evening as Shauna crawled into bed, she noticed something under her pillow. It was a candy bar wrapped in a note. She carefully removed the paper. It read:
Dear Ghost,
Thank you for helping me today.
I love you,
Mom
Shauna placed the candy bar on top of her desk. She’d save it for after school tomorrow. It had been a long, busy day, and she was tired. It’s a happy kind of tired, though, she decided as she drifted off to sleep.

Silver Rain paddled her birchbark canoe with swift, sure strokes, dipping the spoon-shaped wooden oar first on one side of the frail shell and then the other. The bow was headed toward a distant point of land.
Her grandmother, Mourning Dove, seated in the front of the canoe facing her, watched with approval. There were no noisy splashes or roiling of the water. The oar blade was inserted cleanly and lifted the same way at the end of each stroke. Bronzed muscles rippled in the arms of the slightly built girl as the boat glided silently across the deep blue water.
Mourning Dove sighed. Where have the years gone? she wondered. It seemed only yesterday that she had been as young and strong as Silver Rain. Now, in the twilight of her life, the older woman would sit by the cooking fire grinding meal or she would tend her numerous small grandchildren while her sons’ wives did all the more strenuous chores. She had begun to eat a little less food each day, feeling that she was no longer useful to the tribe.
“Where now, Grandmother?” Silver Rain asked quietly, letting the canoe drift. They had rounded the long finger of land, but how could this be the secret place of stunning beauty Mourning Dove had yearned to visit once more? They had reached a dead end. This was only a shallow neck in the huge blue lake where dense forest and tangled vines grew to the edge of the water. The girl was deeply disappointed. There was no hidden valley with a lacy waterfall, giant ferns, riotously blooming flowers, or moss-covered boulders here. The tribe had camped at many sites since then. Perhaps the years she carried had robbed Mourning Dove’s memory.
“There! We go through the trees there,” Mourning Dove cried, pointing at what seemed to be a solid wall of trees. Her eyes glowed with anticipation and she turned to face forward.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Silver Rain murmured gently. She paddled slowly, dreading the old one’s humiliation when she realized that her fading memory had tricked her.
Suddenly the girl smiled with relief and quickened her strokes. There was a narrow path of water between the trees! It was like a silver thread. They were soon swallowed up by a cool green tunnel. The canoe raced over still, crystal clear water with little effort.
Silver Rain, awed by the eerie lush beauty of the tunnel of overhanging trees, was not prepared for their abrupt emergence into the hidden valley nor for the cry of pain from Mourning Dove when she saw only a blackened, burned-over valley.
Silver Rain had been named for the lacy waterfall that bounced down the cliff like a silver veil. And only that remained unchanged. The once-beautiful secret place was an ugly desolation. Months ago a forest fire, probably kindled by a lightning strike, had raged through these wooded hills. Black ashes and charred tree stumps littered the area. Not a single green leaf or blade of grass was left. It was a place of death except for a silvery speckled trout that leaped in a pool near the boulders beneath the waterfall.
After her first agonized cry, Mourning Dove sat motionless. She did not speak again on their return to the camp. Then she entered her tepee and turned her face to the wall. She lay unmoving, refusing to even look upon the food and water Silver Rain carried to her.
Silver Rain fled to the forest in misery. How could she rekindle her grandmother’s spirit? She sat quietly, watching a gray squirrel scurrying over a deep carpet of pine needles and cones. Is he hungry and searching for an acorn he buried last autumn? If he fails to remember the spot, a giant oak will stand here someday, she mused.
The thought electrified Silver Rain. Racing to the village, she gathered the older children and whispered instructions. They snatched up baskets and scattered throughout the forest. The children worked together until dark, returning many times with their baskets filled with small trees, shrubs, ferns, and wild flowers. The women joined their efforts, carefully placing wet balls of mud and moss around fragile roots before repacking them in large storage baskets.
Mourning Dove finally appeared at the door of her tepee and grasped Silver Rain’s wrist as the girl rushed by with a load of greenery. “Is something wrong? Why is there so much commotion? Have the men returned from their hunt?” she asked weakly.
“No, the braves have not yet returned, Grandmother, and there is no trouble,” Silver Rain said, smiling. “We are noisy and busy because tomorrow at dawn we will start to restore your lovely green valley! Many baskets of seeds and small saplings have been gathered. We shall spread out over the hills and plant them. In a few years a new forest will rise from the ashes of the one you remember—but only if I can find your secret entrance alone,” she said slyly, watching her grandmother’s startled face.
The girl’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief as she started on and then turned back. “It’s too bad you have no appetite, Grandmother,” she sighed. “Without food you will be too weak to ride in my canoe and guide me.”
Mourning Dove bristled. “Your tricks do not fool me, Silver Rain. However, I do feel a bit hungry now, I think. Fetch my supper and I will eat. Tomorrow I shall lead you back swiftly. Your fumbling search for the secret water path might cause the plants to wilt. And I shall plant seedlings along the banks of the pools and the lower slopes while you young ones cover the high ground.”
At dawn fifteen canoes left the campsite. Each looked like a tiny, green, floating island as they fell in line. Mourning Dove sat proudly in the bow of Silver Rain’s leading craft that was almost hidden by greenery. Her lap was filled with watercress, water hyacinths, and cattail reeds to restock the deep pool at the base of the waterfall where the speckled trout splashed.
The emptied canoes rode high in the water as they glided back in the light of a full moon. The braves had returned from a successful hunt and a feast had been prepared. The chief announced that tomorrow the tribe would leave this site and continue its trek to northern hunting grounds. Silver Rain felt a pang as she thought that it might be a year or more before they camped here again, a year before she could see how the green growth was spreading over the blackened land.
Mourning Dove stood at the water’s edge and gazed off toward her hidden valley. It was not likely that she would ever see it again, but it did not matter. The beauty would return slowly, perhaps in time for Silver Rain’s grandchildren to enjoy it. Nature would have mended the ravaged valley with the help of birds, squirrels and other small creatures, and with seeds wafted on the wind. But she and the children had sped up the process by many years. The thrill of such an accomplishment made her weariness fade away. To think that together they had restored a forest today!

One wintry day when I was eleven, Dad took me into the foothills between Blackfoot and Idaho Falls, Idaho, to buy a riding horse. We chose a coal-black yearling that fought and reared and was really wild. I was told that when he was roped by the cowboys, it was the first time he had ever been touched by human hands. We named him Champ.
I learned that Champ had royal blood running in his veins. His grandfather was the incomparable Man o’ War, the most famous thoroughbred racehorse of all time. Dad and I trained him patiently, and Champ and I became the best of friends and partners. He was the greatest animal I had ever seen. He was swift and strong, and no local horse ever came close to winning a race with him. As I saw the qualities he had inherited from his famous grandfather, it really made me think about my own potential as a child of God.
In 1948 we moved from Idaho to Moses Lake, Washington. The wide open spaces of the Columbia basin were perfect horse country. There was nothing beyond our farm for several miles in some directions. Range cattle ruled over the territory they had grazed on for generations. Now we were putting up fences around part of their range and growing lush and tempting alfalfa, potatoes, and corn. Our fences were good but not always good enough to keep out the white-faced red Herefords. That job fell to Champ and this eager twelve-year-old who had seen western movies about cattle drives by rugged cowboys.
Champ and I had memorable drives of our own, chasing away the cattle that invaded our fields or even grazed suspiciously close, Together we learned some tricks of the cowboy’s trade, such as singling out one animal and cutting it from the herd. We developed an extraordinary oneness. Sometimes I would ride without saddle or bridle. It was just Champ and me in perfect unison, racing at breakneck speed. Even at those speeds, without artificial harnessing of any kind, we were in complete control. Just a touch on his neck would turn him. A shift in my posture would slow him down or speed him up. He was totally obedient, completely responsive.
Champ was a good-looking horse with classic markings. He won first place at the county fair, and many people offered to buy him. But he wasn’t for sale.
One Sunday after sacrament meeting, I went out to feed Champ and he was gone. Searching for a black horse at night was not easy, and morning brought no comfort. There was no hungry, thirsty Champ at the corral gate. We searched all over the farm and far beyond with no success. It appeared that Champ had been stolen!
Heartsick and unwilling to accept the obvious, I asked my cousin Kay Lybbert to lend me a horse and go with me into the wastelands beyond our farm in search of Champ. I had caught glimpses of wild horses in this country, scattered bands of mares and colts, led by dominant stallions.
We rode for hours into rocky and treacherous lands. We were tired, hungry, and discouraged and were talking of turning back, when we thought we saw a shape on the horizon. We pushed on and eventually rode over a ridge and saw a herd of about fifteen wild horses. They were startled. Their nostrils were wide, pumping cool air into deep lungs. Heads high, tails flying, muscles tensed, they burst away in wild flight. To our amazement and joy, the magnificent Champ was before them all, leading the herd, as wild and elusive as the first day I saw him as an unschooled yearling.
I have often thought about that most vivid picture. Champ was rightfully mine. We had been the best of companions. We had had great times together. He had been a disciplined and precious soul. But now he was undisciplined, out of control, and determined to stay that way. Though he was their visible leader, he was really under the control of the group of wild horses with whom he had accepted company.
We were off on a race, not on the manicured track where his grandfather had won fame, but across wild and rugged lands where a tired horse burdened with a rider could stumble and fall. At stake was the future of my beloved Champ.
I doubted our ability to stick with the wild horses, because we had been traveling half a day and they were fresh. But somehow we turned them eastward and stayed close. In time we slid over a steep hill down into Mae Valley within sight of our own fences. The herd soon thundered past our place, the steam from their bodies rising above them in a cloud. With the help of neighbors, we were finally able to channel Champ into our corral, safely behind secure barriers.
Dad was the first to get to Champ. He called him by name and approached gently, moving without disturbing gestures or sounds, easing up to him, and putting his arms around the horse’s quivering neck. I watched him give Champ an embrace that only a horse lover would understand. We were all relieved that this prized animal was back where he belonged once again, and where he was loved, protected, and cared for.
Children, honor your father and mother. Follow the Savior, your Master. Listen to them. Learn from them, and stay faithful. They have given you a noble heritage, just as Champ’s parents gave him one.

James (10) and Jessa (9) Bacani Campbell are two siblings (brother and sister) who spend a lot of time together. They have other “twos” in common. They have lived in two countries, have spoken two languages, and have been a part of two families.
They lived in the Philippines until three years ago, when their mother, Rosalia Bacani, died. Their uncle and aunt, Lynn and Remy Campbell, from Boise, Idaho, then adopted them. They are now a part of a big family with two more brothers and two more sisters: Joseph (21), Chandra (20), Jacob (19), and Cheryl (16).
They not only gained a loving, new family but also learned about the gospel of Jesus Christ. They didn’t know anything about Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ when they came to their new home. “They were not members of the Church, and they had to start from scratch learning about it,” Sister Campbell said.
James and Jessa received all the missionary discussions and went to Church with their new family. On Christmas Eve, 1997, they were baptized by their brother Joseph, who had just returned from the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission. They know that it was special to be baptized on the same day. “But,” as Jessa pointed out, “we weren’t baptized together.”
“I was baptized first,” James said, “because I’m older.” He remembers the water being really warm on that wintry evening, but he also remembers feeling warm “inside me.” It was a contrast to the cold snow outside, which was still new to them—they had never seen snow in the Philippines.
Their new dad confirmed them, and Jessa said that she felt happy. James felt the Spirit while partaking of the sacrament the next Sunday. He told the family afterward, “You know, there’s something different in me. There’s a warm feeling.”
Neither James nor Jessa knew how to speak or read English when they moved to the United States, so they didn’t say much. But their family claims that they talk nonstop now. Because they are still learning English, they are in an ESL (English as a Second Language) class at school. Jessa uses this class as an opportunity to serve others. “I help friends in the class who don’t know English as well.” She has many friends because of her openness and caring. One friend even wrote her a note that said, “You are my very best, best, best, best friend. Today I will buy you a candy and an ice cream.”
James serves his friends when he plays sports. “Sometimes I bring frozen treats out for them when we play,” he said. Basketball and soccer top his list of favorite sports, and he and his friends often play tag in their school yard.
Jessa is a talented dancer. She won many awards in the Philippines by performing traditional Filipino dances. She plans to continue dancing, because when she grows up, she wants to be a dancer, doctor, policewoman, and singer. For now, she prepares for a singing career by learning the piano’s notes. She can already play some songs on the piano.
Both James and Jessa enjoy riding their bikes and roller-skating. Jessa especially likes playing games such as ticktacktoe with James. “In the Philippines we didn’t have ticktacktoe,” Jessa explained. “We used to play with jacks and rubber bands for games.”
Their family often goes camping and fishing. “We went camping a couple of weeks after they moved here,” Brother Campbell said.
“They didn’t know anything about mountains, camping, or sleeping in a tent,” Sister Campbell added. “But they adjusted really well. Both of them even caught a fish on their first try!”
“You didn’t catch it,” Jessa told James. “Daddy helped you.”
“Daddy helped you, too,” James said with a laugh.
James and Jessa have a great respect for their family. James admires his brother Jacob and wants to be like him. He also wants to be like Nephi because Nephi obeyed his father and his Heavenly Father. “I obey my father, too,” he said. Jessa also respects her dad, and she knows all the words to her favorite Primary song, “Fathers.”*
Both children enjoy Primary and Church activities. James is a Bear in Cub Scouts and went to day camp, where he learned skills such as tying knots. Each year he has been a Scout, he has entered a race car in the Pinewood Derby. “I always lose,” he said with a grin. Jessa enjoys Achievement Days. She learned about health at one activity and has since kept track of what she eats and how many hours of sleep and exercise she gets.
James has had to cut back on his physical activities. He had foot surgery to straighten a crooked bone in his foot, and he temporarily wears a cast over his foot and lower leg. But this experience has taught him that spiritual strength is as important as physical strength. He admires Moroni because he is an example of strength in both ways. “I want to be strong like him when I grow up so that when people are having trouble, I can help them.”
He learns these traits from the missionaries, too. His family regularly has the missionaries over to dinner, and James likes to learn from them. But he also likes them to come over for another reason. “I like the food,” he said. “We make good food when they come.”
Jessa likes learning about the Creation through her Primary lessons, games, and songs. “I like learning about the Creation of the world because it helps you learn about Jesus,” she said.
James’s favorite Primary song is “Book of Mormon Stories,”** because it’s about learning the scripture stories. James and Jessa now have the scriptures and wonderful teachers, friends, and family who help them learn about Jesus Christ and His church. For both children, this was a real comfort when they moved to a new country and had to learn a new language. James even remembers hiding in the bushes because he was so scared and lonely when he first moved. Now both he and Jessa are confident and happy, and they know that they are loved by many.

I may be small, but Mommy says that I’m a big help. I help her every day.
Sometimes I help her with the dishes. She gives them to me, and I put them in the cupboard. One day while we were doing the dishes, Mommy said, “Samuel, a new baby is coming to live in our house. You will have a new sister or brother.”
I looked at the cupboard. It was full of dishes. I said, “We can’t have a new baby. There’s no room for baby dishes.”
Mommy laughed. “We’ll find room,” she said.
Sometimes I help Mommy clean our three bedrooms. One is for her and Daddy. One is for Peter and Daniel. One is for Dawn and me. One day while we were cleaning the bedrooms, I said, “We can’t have a new baby. There’s no room for a baby bed.”
Mommy ruffled my hair. “We’ll find room,” she said.
Sometimes I help Mommy set the table. I set placemats and cups. Mommy sets the rest. We have six placemats and six chairs. One day while we were setting the table, I said, “We can’t have a new baby. There’s no room for a baby chair.”
Mommy gave me a hug. “We’ll find room,” she said.
On Sunday we go to church. I put on my pants and shoes. Daddy ties my shoes and buttons my shirt. We all get into the car and drive to church. Mommy and Daddy and I sit in the front seat. Dawn and Peter and Daniel sit in the backseat. One Sunday while we were driving to church, I said, “We can’t have another baby. There’s no room for a baby seat.”
Mommy put her arm around me. “We’ll find room,” she said.
At church I sit on Daddy’s lap. I try to be quiet. I fold my arms at prayer time and during the sacrament. Then I watch the people.
One Sunday while I was sitting on Daddy’s lap at church, I looked around the chapel. It was full of people. I whispered, “We can’t have a new baby. There’s no room in the chapel.”
Daddy smiled and whispered back, “Don’t worry, Samuel. We’ll find room.”
Yesterday the new baby came. She’s a girl. She’s tiny and not very pretty, and she cries. Mommy put her on my lap. She grabbed my finger and held on tight. I’m her big brother. Mommy looked at me and said, “Samuel, this is Eleanor. She has come to live in our family.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll find room.”

By direct contrast, I can tell you about a ward member who grew up in a home where she didn’t feel safe and battled feelings of depression and worthlessness. When she received her patriarchal blessing, she asked herself, “Who is this person being talked about here? It isn’t me.” But over the years she has consulted that blessing to remind herself how Heavenly Father sees her. As her faith grew, she came to believe the promises in her blessing.

I had just finished doing baptisms for the dead when I received the message that one of my best friends had died. He was such a wonderful young man, and we had had so much fun together at Church activities.
I went to his funeral three days later and met his parents and friends. A girl from my ward and I sat down in the chapel, and the ceremony started with a song and a prayer. Some excellent talks followed, and a few songs were played.
I had never had a strong testimony about eternal life, but when we started to sing the hymn “How Great Thou Art,” I began to cry. The girl by my side asked if I was OK because she saw me crying so hard. But they weren’t tears of pain and sadness. It was because I felt the Spirit so strongly, and from that moment on I knew that I would see my friend again.

Not too long ago, I received a letter from the office of the Council of the Twelve authorizing me to interview a man to determine whether he was worthy to receive a restoration of blessings. Attached to that assignment letter were two pages of information about this individual. In reading these pages, I learned, among other things, that the man was a former Melchizedek Priesthood holder; that he had received his temple endowment years before; and that he had once been sealed to his wife and family. Moreover, I learned that the man had transgressed seriously several years ago and that, because of his transgressions, he had been excommunicated from the Church. Such excommunication resulted in his loss of membership, baptism, gift of the Holy Ghost, holy priesthood, endowment, and temple sealing. All of these sacred privileges and blessings had either been cancelled or withdrawn.

On the appointed day and hour, I met with the man. With him was his lovely wife. Once the greetings and niceties had been exchanged, I invited my friend to tell me his story. He told me of his conversion and of his varied activities in the Church. He told me about his first wife, his first marriage, and the subsequent birth of three children. He also told me of his love for his family and his desire to provide them with security and with the luxuries of life. Then, with some display of emotion, he told me how his strong urge to gather these material things had caused him to neglect his wife and children. In time serious problems had developed between the man and his mate, and she had asked for a divorce.

The divorce was obtained. Feeling that his world had collapsed around him, the man lost all interest in life. He therefore sold his business, moved to a new location, and began to live after the way of the world. He drowned himself in drink, he turned to the use of tobacco, and he became heavily involved in sex. One affair led to another. Each nefarious incident caused him to sink deeper and deeper into the mire of sin.

Then he met a woman who was different. She had principles and standards and lived accordingly. He courted her for a brief time, and they were married.

A month or so after their marriage, the wife startled her husband by asking, “Why is it that I catch glimpses of goodness and greatness in you and then they’re gone?” She added, “Sometimes I feel as if I’m married to only half a man.” The husband was moved by what his wife had said and replied, “I suppose it is time I leveled with you. I am a Mormon—a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He then explained to his wife what that Church membership had once meant to him. He spoke also of the basic principles and ordinances of the gospel. He described the priesthood and his temple marriage and sealing to his former companion.

When the explanations were over, the wife was crying. She told her husband that she had never heard anything quite so beautiful. She asked, “How can we bring those blessings back into your life so that they will remain?” He told her he would need to seek out a bishop, confess his sins, submit to court proceedings, and undergo a rather lengthy period of repentance. The woman said, “Whatever the price, we will pay it. And we will begin right now.”

As the man had predicted, once a bishop had been located, a court was held, and he was stripped of all of his blessings. But as this good woman had committed, they climbed together the long path back. They had struggled for four years before he was rebaptized and finally given the gift of the Holy Ghost.

At the conclusion of this successful interview, I restored the man’s blessings, including the priesthood, an office within that priesthood, the temple endowment, and the temple sealing. As soon as I had pronounced the “Amen,” the woman rushed into her husband’s arms and declared, “Now I have a complete man—a whole man!”

Natanael held Mom’s hand tightly as they walked into the Primary room. Today was Natanael’s second week in the Sunbeam class. His stomach felt fluttery, and with each step, he walked a little more slowly.
Last week, Primary had been kind of confusing. During singing time, Mia kept standing up and turning around in circles. Natanael was tired of sitting, so he stood up too. But then his teacher asked him to sit back down. During sharing time, some of the older children talked and laughed. Sometimes it was too noisy to hear what Sister Miranda, the Primary president, was saying. When his friend Cara started crying, it made Natanael feel like crying too.
As he got closer to the front row, Natanael didn’t want to let go of Mom’s hand. He was worried that Primary would be confusing this week too. Then he saw his teacher.
“Hi, Natanael,” Sister Tejada said. “I’m glad to see you.” Sister Tejada patted the seat next to her.
Natanael liked his teacher’s friendly smile. He let go of Mom’s hand and sat down by Sister Tejada.
“I’ll be back to pick you up after class,” Mom said. “Remember to be reverent.”
Natanael wasn’t sure he knew how.
After the opening prayer, Sister Miranda stood up. “Today we have a special visitor,” she said.
Suddenly, a puppet appeared from behind a table next to Sister Miranda. The puppet wiggled, waved his arms, and said, “Is it time to go yet? I need a drink!”
Some of the children giggled.
“This is Arlo’s first time in Primary,” Sister Miranda said, “and he doesn’t know how to be reverent. But before he can be reverent, he needs to learn good Primary manners.”
Natanael was surprised. At dinner Mom sometimes reminded him to put his napkin on his lap. That was good manners. And Dad always asked everyone to thank Mom for the nice meal before they started clearing off the table. That was good manners too. But what were Primary manners?
Arlo leaned backward over the front of the table. “Hey, everybody looks funny upside down!” he said.
“Good manners are rules that show we respect other people,” Sister Miranda explained. “Arlo doesn’t know the rules for good Primary manners. Do you think we could teach him?” she asked.
Sister Miranda went to the chalkboard and drew an arm. “What should Arlo do with his arms?” she asked.
“Fold them!” Mia called out.
“That’s right,” Sister Miranda said.
Arlo sat up. He folded his arms and raised them over his head. “Oh, you mean like this?” he asked.
Natanael knew that wasn’t right.
Sister Miranda asked if everyone in Primary could show Arlo how to fold his arms.
Natanael quickly folded his arms. Arlo folded his arms too.
On the chalkboard, next to the drawing of the arm, Sister Miranda wrote, “Fold our arms.”
As Sister Miranda drew more pictures, the children taught Arlo the rules for good Primary manners. Natanael was glad that he knew most of them already.
Now Arlo wasn’t wiggling or waving his arms or calling out. His legs were still, and his arms were folded. The children were listening quietly too. Primary didn’t seem noisy and confusing anymore. Natanael felt calm and happy. It wouldn’t be too hard to be reverent in Primary. He already knew how.

Clarence stared out the car window as the harbor came into view. Boats floated in the water in front of colorful houses and shops. Copenhagen, Denmark, was a beautiful city filled with palaces, mansions, and parks. It was not at all like Clarence’s hometown in Utah, USA. Clarence could picture the dusty streets where he ran races as a boy. Now he was a member of the United States track team, and tomorrow he would be facing a famous Danish runner in an important race.
The car stopped at a small chapel where a Church meeting had already started.
As Clarence slipped into the back of the meeting, one of the missionaries sitting on the stand recognized him from a news article about tomorrow’s race. The branch president asked Clarence to come up and speak.
After Clarence told why he was visiting, a boy stood up and raised his hand. “Do you think you can beat the Danish champion?” he asked.
Clarence wasn’t sure what to say. The Danish runner did have a better time in the mile that season.
“Of course he can,” said one of the missionaries before Clarence could answer. “Because he lives the Word of Wisdom.” He opened his scriptures to Doctrine and Covenants 89. He read the promise that those who keep the Word of Wisdom “shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint” (verse 20).
Clarence saw a long row of boys looking up at him. What could he say? As a child he had promised to always keep the Word of Wisdom. But that alone didn’t mean he could win this race. Winning also required practice and skill. As Clarence left the meeting, he thought, Well, no one from church will be at the race tomorrow anyway.
The next evening as Clarence was warming up for his race, he looked up and saw the two missionaries with a group of about 17 boys. They had come!
As they got closer, one of the missionaries whispered to Clarence, “If you’ve ever run fast in your life, you’d better run fast tonight.” Many of the boys weren’t members of the Church but had come with their friends to see if the Word of Wisdom was really true.
Clarence was worried. In this race, his best might not be good enough. But he was running for a principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He had to win. He had never prayed to win before, but he found an empty room to kneel and pray.
He prayed, “Father in Heaven, I know the Word of Wisdom is true, and I have never broken it. Please bless me with victory in this race.” As he walked out to the starting line, he knew Heavenly Father had heard his prayer. He trusted Heavenly Father’s will.
The evening was rainy and muddy. As Clarence began the race, it seemed just like many other mile races he had run. The pace was fast, and the Danish champion was ahead. But as Clarence finished the third lap, suddenly he was not tired anymore. He started running faster, and it didn’t hurt. Going even a little faster still didn’t hurt. He passed the Danish champion and still went faster.
As Clarence came around the turn, his coach yelled, “Slow down! You’ll never make the finish line!” But Clarence knew he could keep running. And when he finished the race, he was more than 50 yards (46 m) ahead of the Danish runner! He knew he had won because Heavenly Father had answered his prayer and because the Word of Wisdom is true.
Clarence F. Robison raced in the 1948 Summer Olympics and became a great college track coach. When he was young, he promised his mother he would always keep the Word of Wisdom. He knew this wouldn’t make him win all his races. But he knew that Heavenly Father could help him do his best when he was clean and worthy and faithful.

For a long time I struggled with an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa, where you eat less and less and worry about gaining weight. It affects you mentally—you start to feel guilty for eating and don’t understand your body’s needs. It didn’t help that I constantly saw unrealistic standards online or at school, and I compared myself to my family and others around me.
My eating disorder was definitely something I hid. But my mom noticed the changes in my eating habits. She sat down with me and gave me as much time as I needed to tell her what was going on. There were a lot of tears, but I think the Spirit helped guide her to know I needed help. Together, we made a plan and started gently working through it.
During that time, I also decided to get my patriarchal blessing. I wanted to know what my life could be like outside of the darkness that I was experiencing. I came in asking God, “Who am I?,” “Do You love me?,” and “Why am I here?” The first thing the patriarch said was an answer to those questions. My blessing helps me learn about my true identity and what God has in store for me. Whenever I read it, I feel the Savior’s love for me and remember what I can become with Him.
Even with the support of my patriarchal blessing, my family, my Heavenly Father, and my Savior, it took me a long time to process the feelings I had about my body. It’s still hard sometimes to accept myself for who I am and the way I look. But because of my dark times, I am starting to appreciate the growth and light that come from recognizing my true identity. I’m a daughter of Heavenly Father. I’m a disciple of Jesus Christ. They look upon me with love and encouragement, and that matters more than anyone else’s opinion.

Sister Jodi King wrote of her own experience of past years:
“I never felt like I didn’t belong at church until my husband, Cameron, and I began struggling with infertility. The children and families who had typically brought me joy to see at church now started causing me grief and pain.
“I felt barren without a child in my arms or a diaper bag in hand. …
“The hardest Sunday was our first one in a new ward. Because we didn’t have kids, we were asked if we were newlyweds and when we planned on starting a family. I had gotten pretty good at answering these questions without letting them affect me—I knew they weren’t meant to be hurtful.
“However, on this particular Sunday, answering those questions was especially hard. We had just found out, after being hopeful, that we were—yet again—not pregnant.
“I walked into sacrament meeting feeling downtrodden, and answering those typical ‘get to know you’ questions was hard for me. …
“But it was Sunday School that truly broke my heart. The lesson—intended to be about the divine role of mothers—quickly shifted gears and became a vent[ing] session. My heart sank and tears silently flowed down my cheeks as I heard women complain about a blessing I would give anything for.
“I bolted out of church. At first, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to experience that feeling of isolation again. But that night, after talking with my husband, we knew we would keep attending church not only because the Lord has asked us to but also because we both knew that the joy that comes from renewing covenants and feeling the Spirit at church surpasses the sadness I felt that day. …
“In the Church, there are widowed, divorced, and single members; those with family members who have fallen away from the gospel; people with chronic illnesses or financial struggles; members who experience same-sex attraction; members working to overcome addictions or doubts; recent converts; new move-ins; empty-nesters; and the list goes on and on. …
“The Savior invites us to come unto Him—no matter our circumstances. We come to church to renew our covenants, to increase our faith, to find peace, and to do as He did perfectly in His life—minister to others who feel like they don’t belong.”

I guess I had my first run-in with a bee on a hot summer day when I was about five years old. I was minding my own business when suddenly an angry bee flew into my shirt and stung me on the stomach. At least that’s what I told my mom. Actually, I was pulling the petals off of her yellow roses. You know, “She loves me not.” Pluck. “She loves me—ooh, yuck.”
I was just getting ready to prove once and for all that no yucky girl loved me when apparently I found a rose that was already in use. A bee came buzzing out and crawled through a tiny hole in my shirt. I tried holding still, something I’d always been told to do by my brave and more experienced brothers. But I panicked and frantically tried to brush the bee out from under my shirt. Unfortunately, the bee panicked too and stung me.
Inside, as Mom pulled out the stinger and dried my tears, she said, “I know you feel bad. But you should feel sorry for the bee. Once a bee has stung somebody it dies.” As I sniffled and thought about her words, I decided that maybe the score was about even. But nearly ten years later I wasn’t so sure.
When I was 14, I began working for a neighbor who raised bees as a hobby. My job was to take care of his horses, paint fences, mow the lawn, and weed the garden.
The beehives were located in the field behind the garden, and it seemed like every time I was there I’d end up getting stung or chased by some angry bee. I was beginning to wonder if the bees were trying to avenge the death of their long-lost ancestor.
I told my neighbor I was going to need combat pay if he wanted his garden weeded. He told me what I really needed was the right equipment. We went into his basement and he got out his bee suit: thick gloves with sleeves that went all the way up my arms, white pants and shirt because white tends to pacify bees, boots, a hat, and a screen mask that covered my face and head.
Feeling protected, I journeyed outside. Unfortunately it didn’t take long before I felt something crawling around on my head. There was a hole on the top of the mask. I’m not sure who panicked first, the bee or me. I took off running for the house, but before I got very far it was too late.
I guess you could say I got the point that day. But I really got it later when I was reading in Doctrine and Covenants 27:15 [D&C 27:15] where it says, “Wherefore, lift up your hearts and rejoice, and gird up your loins, and take upon you my whole armor, that ye may be able to withstand the evil day, having done all, that ye may be able to stand.”
In my spiritual life, I have learned the whole armor of God is essential to our salvation. We need to check our armor daily to see that it’s in place and in good repair—and that it doesn’t have holes in it. Prayer, daily scripture study, and repentance are just a few of the things that will help us win the spiritual battles we face.
It’s been a while since I’ve been stung by a bee, but I suppose if it happens again it will serve as a pointed reminder of the importance of putting on the whole armor of God.

As a young missionary serving in the Central States Mission, Elder Kimball was traveling on a train to Chicago, Illinois, when a man approached him.
Man: Hey there, young fellow. I have a book that I think you’ll like.
It was a vulgar book filled with obscene pictures. Spencer wouldn’t touch it.
Elder Kimball: You are wrong, sir. That book does not appeal to me.
The man tried a different approach.
Man: Come into the city with me. I’ll show you where you can have a good time.
Elder Kimball: Absolutely not. I am a representative of Jesus Christ, and I will not follow where you go.
The man realized that the young missionary was in earnest and finally left him alone. Spencer recorded in his journal that he could feel himself blush for an hour.
Elder Kimball: Oh, how hard Satan, through his imps, tries to lead young people astray.I thank the Lord that I had the power to resist.

Paula says, “The standards I always saw my friend live were now mine. My friend’s testimony was now mine.” Not long after, Paula began to feel an intense desire to share with others what she had been given. When she had been a member for one year, she filled out her mission papers, met with her priesthood leaders, and received a call to serve in the Chile Santiago East Mission.
Valeria says, “As I watched my friend prepare to serve her mission, the Spirit touched my heart. I wanted to commit myself to serve God the way she was.”
“May I speak to you?” This time it was Valeria who had pulled Paula aside. “I’ve felt something special as you have been preparing to leave on your mission.”
Paula told her friend the same thing her friend had once told her: “It’s the Spirit telling you what you need to do.”
Valeria’s plans hadn’t included a full-time mission. She wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “I can’t do it alone,” she told Paula.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” her friend assured.
Later, when Valeria opened her call, she was surprised to be going to the same mission as her friend. Paula began serving in October 2002; Valeria joined her in February 2003.

Kali walked into the lunchroom and looked around. All the other kids were running straight to their friends and gathering at tables. The room was noisy with excited voices and happy laughter. It was only the second day of school, but it seemed like everyone had someone to sit with but Kali.
She squeezed the handle of her lunchbox and walked to one of the tables. “Can I sit by you?” Kali asked.
A girl with a long, brown braid looked up. She huffed and shook her head. “No. It’s taken,” she said.
“OK.” Kali moved to another empty seat and set down her lunchbox.
“You can’t sit here! I’m saving that seat,” a boy in a green-striped shirt said. He pushed Kali’s lunchbox onto the floor. His friends all laughed.
Kali bent down and picked up her lunchbox again. She walked across the lunchroom and sat at an empty table. She saw someone from her neighborhood and tried to wave, but he looked the other way. Kali frowned. Why didn’t anyone want to be her friend?
Kali looked down at her food. She didn’t feel like eating anymore. She wiped her eyes, closed her lunchbox, and walked outside.
Everyone was already playing with their friends. Kali sat by herself on a bench and watched the other kids having fun without her. Then Kali noticed a boy about her age sitting alone on the grass. He was wearing a stained yellow shirt, and his hair stood up in the back.
Kali looked away. She saw a group of girls from her class playing foursquare. She wished they would invite her to play with them.
Kali looked at the boy again. His head was hanging down, and he was picking the grass around his feet. Kali remembered something Mom sometimes said: Look for the kids who are lonely.
Kali frowned. She was lonely too. Nobody was trying to be her friend!
But then Kali thought about when she got baptized last year. She promised to listen to the Holy Ghost. Maybe the Holy Ghost was helping her remember what Mom told her. Maybe the Holy Ghost was trying to tell her to play with the boy in the yellow shirt.
Kali sighed and got to her feet. A warm feeling spread in her heart. She walked over and sat next to the boy in the grass.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he mumbled back.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Um … green.”
“That’s cool. I like pink,” said Kali. “Do you have a favorite animal?”
The boy sat up a little straighter and looked at her. “Yeah. I really like dinosaurs.”
“Oh, me too. My favorite is a triceratops.”
The boy smiled.
Then the bell rang. Kali got to her feet and waved goodbye to the boy. She smiled as she walked back to her classroom alone. She might not have a best friend, but she felt happy knowing she had made someone else’s recess a little better.

That interest and excitement about missionary work has spread. Victor, 12, is, all the brothers admit, the best baseball player, and he loves the game. His parents started getting calls from the local baseball coaches asking why Victor had not signed up to play baseball during the summer. “When I asked Victor,” says Rick, “he said he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chris during the summer before he went on his mission. I just said, ‘Wow, Victor, you’d do that for your brother?’” With so many boys in the family, the competition was sometimes less than brotherly. Chris and Matt, being close in age, suffered from it for a while. Anything Chris did, Matt tried to do better. It caused contention. Chris says, “Mom knew best. She had a talk with me. She said that God gave us all talents, and we can’t be better than someone else at everything. Then I realized that Matt has something in him that makes him better at some things. He has his talents, and I have mine. We need to share them and gain from each other and really enjoy watching each other do whatever. It might be soccer, band, sports, being outdoors, or giving service.” When Chris watched Matt compete at state in the pole vault, the sport he had taught his younger brother, the disappointment at not being there himself lessened. He felt calm. “I was glad one of us made it and that it could be my brother.” Editor’s Note: Since this article was written, Chris received his mission call and is serving in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

When I had been on my mission in Germany about a year, I was assigned to work with a brand new missionary named Elder Keeler, who had just arrived fresh from converting, so he thought, all the stewardesses on the plane from New York to Frankfurt. Within a few days of his arrival, I was called to a meeting in another city and had to leave him to work in our city with another inexperienced missionary whose companion went with me. I returned late that night. The next morning I asked him how his day had gone. He broke into an enthusiastic smile and said he had found a family who would surely join the Church. In our mission, it was rare to see anyone join the Church let alone a whole family. I asked for more details, but he had forgotten to write down either the name or the address. All he could remember was that the family lived on the top floor of a big apartment house.

“Oh, that’s great,” I thought to myself as I contemplated all those flights of stairs. He also explained that he knew so little German that he had exchanged just a few words with the woman who answered the door. But he did think she wanted us to come back—and he wanted to go find her and have me talk to her that very minute. I explained that all the people who don’t slam the door in our faces did not intend to join the Church. But we went to find her, mostly to appease him. He couldn’t remember the right street either, so we picked a street it might have been and began climbing up and down those endless polished staircases.

After a frustrating hour, I decided I had to be frank (honest) with him. Based on my many months of experience, I said, it was simply not worth our time to try any longer to find her. I had developed a tolerance for the realities of missionary work and simply knew more than he did about it. His eyes filled with tears and his lower lip began to tremble. “Elder Hafen,” he said, “I came on my mission to find the honest in heart. The Spirit told me that, that woman will be a member of the Church.” So I decided to teach him a lesson. I raced him up one staircase after another, until he was ready to fall over from exhaustion, and so was I. “Elder Keeler,” I asked, “have you had enough?” “No,” he said. “We’ve got to find her.” I began to get angry, I decided to work him until he asked to stop—then maybe he would get the message.

Then at the top of a long flight of stairs, we found the apartment. She came to the door. He thrashed my ribs with his elbow, and whispered loudly, “That’s her, Elder. That’s the one. Talk to her!”

Brothers and sisters, not long ago that woman’s husband sat in my living room. He was in Utah for general conference. He is the bishop of the Mannheim Ward. His two boys are preparing for missions. His wife and daughter are strong, active members of the Church. That is a lesson I can never forget about the limitations of the skepticism that comes with learning and experience. I hope that I will never be so aware of “reality” that I am unresponsive to the whisperings of heaven.

When I served as a mission president in Scotland, two of our fine missionary sisters taught and baptized a man in his eighties. In a testimony meeting soon afterward, he stood and gave thanks that he now had purpose in life. “I was waiting to die when the sisters knocked on my door,” he said tearfully. Before long he was called as counselor in the ward Sunday School presidency, and later as Sunday School president. He had great joy and happiness in his church service and made many new friends. A year or so passed and he came over to Salt Lake City for a visit, made more friends and gained more experiences, and especially, was able to go to the temple for the first time. When he did step from this life a few months after his return to Scotland, what a full and purposeful life he had—and all within two years!

On a clear winter day I was driving with a friend along the freeway which connects downtown Manhattan, New York, with suburban Westchester. He pointed out to me several of the historic sights which abound in this area where man has indiscriminately constructed his ribbon of highway through the pathway of history.

Suddenly, like an old friend, there came into view Yankee Stadium. Here it was—the stadium of champions, the home of my boyhood heroes. Indeed, what boy has not idolized those who, before cheering thousands, played superbly well the game of baseball.

Being winter, the parking lot surrounding the stadium was deserted. Gone were the crowds, the peanut vendors, the ticket clerks. Still present were the memories of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Joe DiMaggio. The record of their prowess and skill is forever safe—they have been elected to the prestigious Baseball Hall of Fame.

As with baseball, so with life. In the interior of our consciousness, each of us has a private hall of fame reserved exclusively for the real leaders who have influenced the direction of our lives. Relatively few of the many men who exercise authority over us from childhood through adult life meet our test for entry to this roll of honor. That test has very little to do with the outward trappings of power or an abundance of this world’s goods. The leaders whom we admit into this private sanctuary of our reflective meditation are usually those who set our hearts afire with devotion to the truth, who make obedience to duty seem the essence of manhood, who transform some ordinary routine occurrence so that it becomes a vista whence we see the person we aspire to be.

For a moment, perhaps each of us could be the qualifying judge through whom each hall of fame entry must pass. Whom would you nominate for prominent position? Whom would I? Candidates are many—competition severe.

I nominate to the Hall of Fame the name of Adam, the first man to live upon the earth. His citation is from Moses: “And Adam was obedient unto the commandments of the Lord.” (Moses 5:5.) Adam qualifies.

For patient endurance there must be nominated a perfect and upright man whose name was Job. Though afflicted as no other, he declared: “My witness is in heaven, and my record is on high.
“My friends scorn me: but mine eye poureth out tears unto God.” (Job 16:19–20.) “I know that my redeemer liveth.” (Job 19:25.) Job qualifies.

Every Christian would nominate the man Saul, better known as Paul the apostle. His sermons are as manna to the spirit, his life of service an example to all. This fearless missionary declared to the world: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation.” (Rom. 1:16.) Paul qualifies.

Then there is the man called Simon Peter. His testimony of the Christ stirs the heart:
“When Jesus came into the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?
“And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist; some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.
“He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
“And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.” (Matt. 16:13–16.) Peter qualifies.

Of another time and place we recall the testimony of Nephi:
“I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” (1 Ne. 3:7.) Surely Nephi is worthy of a place in the Hall of Fame.

There is yet another I choose to nominate—even the Prophet Joseph Smith. His faith, his trust, his testimony are reflected by his own words, spoken as he went to Carthage Jail and martyrdom: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men.” (D&C 135:4.) He sealed his testimony with his blood. Joseph Smith qualifies.

In our selection of heroes, let us nominate also heroines. First, that noble example of fidelity—even Ruth. Sensing the grief-stricken heart of her mother-in-law, who suffered the loss of each of her two fine sons, and feeling perhaps the pangs of despair and loneliness which plagued the very soul of Naomi, Ruth uttered what has become that classic statement of loyalty: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” (Ruth 1:16.) Ruth’s actions demonstrated the sincerity of her words. There is place for her name in the Hall of Fame.

Shall we not name yet another, a descendant of honored Ruth? I speak of Mary of Nazareth, espoused to Joseph, destined to become the mother of the only sinless man to walk the earth. Her acceptance of this sacred and historic role is a hallmark of humility. “And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” (Luke 1:38.) Surely Mary qualifies.

Could we ask the question, “What makes of these men heroes and these women heroines?” I answer, unwavering trust in an all-wise Heavenly Father and an abiding testimony concerning the mission of a divine Savior. This knowledge is like a golden thread woven through the tapestry of their lives.

Who is that King of Glory, even the Redeemer, for whom such heroes and heroines faithfully served and valiantly died? He is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, even our Savior.

His birth was foretold by prophets; angels heralded the announcement of his earthly ministry. To shepherds abiding in their fields came the glorious proclamation:
“Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:10–11.)

This same Jesus “grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him.” (Luke 2:40.) Baptized of John in the river known as Jordan, he commenced his official ministry to men. To the sophistry of Satan, Jesus turned his back. To the duty designated by his Father, he turned his face, pledged his heart, and gave his life. And what a sinless, selfless, noble, and divine life it was. Jesus labored. Jesus loved. Jesus served. Jesus wept. Jesus healed. Jesus taught. Jesus testified. On a cruel cross, Jesus died. From a borrowed sepulchre, Jesus came forth to eternal life.

The name—Jesus of Nazareth—the only name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved, has singular place and honored distinction in our Hall of Fame.

Some may question: “But what is the value of such an illustrious list of heroes, even a private Hall of Fame?” I answer. When we obey, as did Adam, endure as did Job, teach as did Paul, testify as did Peter, serve as did Nephi, give ourselves as did the prophet Joseph, respond as did Ruth, honor as did Mary, and live as did Christ, we are born anew. All power becomes ours. Cast off forever is the old self and with it defeat, despair, doubt, and disbelief. To a newness of life we come—a life of faith, hope, courage, and joy. No task looms too large. No responsibility weighs too heavily. No duty is a burden. All things become possible.

In our quest for an example, we need not necessarily look to years gone by or to lives lived long ago. Let me illustrate. Today Craig Sudbury presides over a ward here in Salt Lake City, but let me turn back the clock just a few years to the day he and his mother came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for the Church and indeed did not belong to the Church.

Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents. He shared his innermost hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. He pleaded earnestly with me for a suggestion. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be rewarded. Such inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents and, on occasion, write to Dad personally and let him know that you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.”

He thanked me and, with his mother, departed the office. I was not to see Craig’s mother for some 18 months. She came to the office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig departed for his mission. His faithful service has qualified him for positions of responsibility in the mission field, and he has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently my husband Fred stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and said, ‘All of you know that I am not a member of the Church, but something has happened to me since Craig left for his mission. His letters have touched my soul. May I share one with you?
“‘Dear Dad, Today we taught a choice family about the plan of salvation and the blessings of exaltation in the celestial kingdom. I thought of our family. More than anything in the world, I want to be with you and with Mother in that kingdom. For me it just wouldn’t be a celestial kingdom if you were not there. I’m grateful to be your son, Dad, and want you to know that I love you. Your missionary son, Craig.’
“Fred then announced, ‘My wife doesn’t know what I plan to say. I love her and I love our son, Craig. After 26 years of marriage I have made my decision to become a member of the Church, for I know the gospel message is the word of God. I suppose I have known this truth for a long time, but my son’s mission has moved me to action. I have made arrangements for my wife and me to meet Craig when he completes his mission. I will be his final baptism as a full-time missionary of the Lord.’”

A young missionary with unwavering faith had participated with God in a modern-day miracle. His challenge to communicate with one whom he loved had been made more difficult by the barrier of the thousands of miles which lay between him and his father. But the spirit of love spanned the vast expanse of the blue Pacific, and heart spoke to heart in divine dialogue.

No hero stood so tall as did Craig, when in far-off Australia he stood with his father in water waist deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Fred Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

The prayer of a mother, the faith of a father, the service of a son brought forth the miracle of God. Mother, father, son—each qualifies in a Hall of Fame.

May they and each of us so live as to merit the heavenly pronouncement:
“I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end.
“Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.” (D&C 76:5–6.)

Our place in an everlasting and eternal Hall of Fame will thereby be assured. This is my earnest plea as I leave with you my witness that Jesus of Nazareth is our Savior and Redeemer, even our Advocate with the Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, the Lord. Amen.