Gospel Story Finder

In the southern Hungarian city of Pécs, the topic of the first Sunday School lesson after they received the Book of Mormon was Lehi’s dream in 1 Nephi 8 [1 Ne. 8], a story not included in the selections. “The members loved it,” says Elder Brian Blum. “They kept drawing it on chalkboards.”
In Pécs, the books were handed out in a special Christmas family home evening. Elder Blum particularly recalls the reaction of one member, Sister Szücs Krisztina, who had been baptized about three months earlier. “She didn’t get up. She was just sitting there,” he says. “And I was wondering why she wasn’t doing much with her copy of the Book of Mormon. Then I looked down and saw she was crying as she was reading several parts from the Book of Mormon.”

A poignant experience with a former patient shows how gratitude for generosity and compassion can transform us. In 1987, I became acquainted with Thomas Nielson, a remarkable man who needed a heart transplant. He was 63 years old and lived in Logan, Utah, in the United States. Following military service during World War II, he married Donna Wilkes in the Logan Utah Temple. He became an energetic and successful brick mason. In later years he especially enjoyed working with his oldest grandchild, Jonathan, during school vacations. The two developed a special bond, in part because Tom saw much of himself in Jonathan.
Tom found waiting for a donor heart frustrating. He was not a particularly patient man. He had always been able to set and achieve goals through hard work and sheer determination. Struggling with heart failure, with his life on hold, Tom sometimes asked me what I was doing to speed up the process. Jokingly, he suggested avenues I could pursue that would make a donor heart available to him sooner.
One joyous yet dreadful day, an ideal donor heart became available for Tom. The size and blood type were a match, and the donor was young, just 16 years old. The donor heart belonged to Jonathan, Tom’s beloved grandson. Earlier that day, Jonathan had been fatally injured when the car in which he was riding was struck by a passing train.
When I visited Tom and Donna in the hospital, they were distraught. It is hard to imagine what they were going through, knowing that Tom’s life could be extended by using their grandson’s heart. At first, they refused to consider the proffered heart from Jonathan’s grieving parents, their daughter and son-in-law. Tom and Donna knew, though, that Jonathan was brain dead, and came to understand that their prayers for a donor heart for Tom had not caused Jonathan’s accident. No, Jonathan’s heart was a gift that could bless Tom in his time of need. They recognized that something good might come out of this tragedy and decided to proceed.
The transplant procedures went well. Afterward, Tom was a different man. The change went beyond improved health or even gratitude. He told me that he reflected every morning on Jonathan, on his daughter and son-in-law, on the gift he had received, and on what that gift had entailed. Even though his innate good humor and grit were still readily apparent, I observed that Tom was more solemn, thoughtful, and kindhearted.
Tom lived an additional 13 years after the transplant, years he otherwise would not have had. His obituary stated that these years allowed him to touch the lives of his family and others with generosity and love. He was a private benefactor and an example of optimism and determination.

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

Several years ago, my wife’s family had the opportunity to acquire a piece of property. The property had about 500 large and beautiful cherry trees on it. It also had old engine blocks, cars, batteries, car parts, buildings, hundreds of old tires, and other junk that rendered it unsightly and of little value to us. It had been used as a junkyard for many years. So we had to make some difficult decisions. First, were we going to purchase the property, recognizing that it had some potential, but it also had a lot of problems? Second, if we did purchase it, what did we want it to be, and what were we willing to do to realize its full potential?

In the end, we made the choice to purchase the property, to clean it up, and to purge it of all the junk. It was not easy. It took months of hard labor.

Cars were removed, and wire, batteries, tires, and literally hundreds of loads of trash were hauled away.

Old buildings and sheds were torn down and removed.

When we were done, it was beautiful. We turned our attention to the trees and the orchard. We pulled stumps and mowed and prepared the orchard in every way.

That spring, the weather was beautiful. We anticipated a great harvest of cherries. Fruit did come, but those who knew much more about the care of trees than we did said that the trees were in need of attention and that we would need to prune them to improve their yield. My first reaction was, “Wait, they are beautiful, and all is well in the orchard.” However, we listened because we desired that the orchard be as good and productive as it could be, fulfilling its full potential.

So, the next spring we undertook the job of pruning the trees. When we were finished, I wondered, “What have we done? These trees will never thrive after having undergone such devastation. How will they ever produce more fruit than before?”

But as spring progressed, they did become beautiful, and the harvest was bountiful. Now the orchard had reached its full potential.

In order to complete the illustration, let’s look at each part of the experience and relate it to our lives.

We have been presented with an eternal opportunity. Starting today, you can determine your destination. You can place yourself firmly on the path. President Russell M. Nelson refers to it as the covenant path, and it leads back to our Heavenly Father. What is the covenant path? It is sacred covenants we make with God, which if kept, enable us to return to His presence and become like He is. Covenants are binding promises—promises of obedience made by us to our Heavenly Father, and promises of blessings from our Heavenly Father to us. There are a few principles you should know about the covenant path.

There may be things we need to change in order to put ourselves on the covenant path. You may need to go through the hard work of repentance. You may need to change habits that, while not necessarily unrighteous, are not leading you back to our Heavenly Father. You may need to clean up. It is a process that always starts with the first step.

In the orchard, there was the first old battery, the first old car, the first old tire that needed to be loaded onto a truck. It could have been discouraging because when one piece of junk was removed, another seemed to be lying right underneath, but eventually the land was clean. As we make needed changes, little by little, we can see the difference in our lives.

President Nelson has taught that there is great joy in this process. Every step we take that brings us closer to Christ will bring us satisfaction and encouragement. In fact, as our dear prophet has lovingly taught us, this gift of repentance, of change, is one of the greatest gifts extended to us by our Heavenly Father and His Son. We must choose to accept this gift. In choosing to repent, we are setting a course for our lives. There is no sin or transgression that you may have committed that cannot be forgiven. With the Savior’s help we can all change. We all need the gift.

After we had cleaned the junk out of the orchard, a part of us felt we were done. The orchard was now beautiful, and it bore fruit. Yet in order for the orchard to be everything it could be, the trees had to be pruned. We will be tested, even sanctified, by difficult experiences in this life—even as we make our best efforts to get on and stay on the covenant path.

Always dealing honorably with others is part of loving mercy. Consider a conversation I overheard decades ago in the emergency department of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States. A patient, Mr. Jackson, was a courteous, pleasant man who was well known to the hospital staff. He had previously been hospitalized multiple times for the treatment of alcohol-related diseases. On this occasion, Mr. Jackson returned to the hospital for symptoms that would be diagnosed as inflammation of the pancreas caused by alcohol consumption.

Toward the end of his shift, Dr. Cohen, a hardworking and admired physician, evaluated Mr. Jackson and determined that hospitalization was warranted. Dr. Cohen assigned Dr. Jones, the physician next up in rotation, to admit Mr. Jackson and oversee his treatment.

Dr. Jones had attended a prestigious medical school and was just beginning her postgraduate studies. This grueling training was often associated with sleep deprivation, which likely contributed to Dr. Jones’s negative response. Confronted with her fifth admission of the night, she complained loudly to Dr. Cohen. She felt it was unfair that she would have to spend many hours caring for Mr. Jackson, because his predicament was, after all, self-inflicted.

Dr. Cohen’s emphatic response was spoken in almost a whisper. He said, “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.” Following this correction, Dr. Jones diligently cared for Mr. Jackson during the hospitalization.

Mr. Jackson has since died. Both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen have had stellar careers. But at a critical moment in her training, Dr. Jones needed to be reminded to do justly, to love mercy, and to care for Mr. Jackson without being judgmental.

One of the most touching stories Nana Esi Ninsin VIII shared was about a young girl named Mary Mensah in the village, who was inspired by the queen’s example and started her own informal church group, called the Children’s Church. With no resources or formal training, the girl gathered friends and neighbors to pray, sing, and study scripture. After the children’s church service, Mary, their leader, uses their offering of one cedi each to prepare food for them, saying, “They don’t have access to their offering in the mother church.”

When Nana Esi Ninsin VIII learned of her efforts, she welcomed the girl into her fold, integrating her group into the larger church community, the Ekunfi Ekrawfo Group of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “She had a good spirit,” Nana said. “And now she’s part of our training and outreach.”

This act of inclusion not only validated the girl’s leadership but also reinforced Nana Ninsin’s belief that spiritual growth and community development are inextricably linked.

In 1997, I was serving as the President of the Europe North Area of the Church and was living in England. Elder Monte J. Brough, then of the Presidency of the Seventy and the Executive Director of the Family History Department, was assigned to come to England and together we were charged to go to the Public Records Office in London and there discuss our Church's work with the 1851 British census. We needed to show them what had been accomplished and also conduct some negotiations for some future Family History research work that we, as a Church, wished to do.

Elder Brough demonstrated how to access these data on the CDs that our people had produced. He then asked the several professional English genealogists present if any of them had an ancestor living in 1851 in any of the counties where the census had taken place. None could think of anyone to search for.

Elder Brough had anticipated such an event and so he said that he knew of a man living in England at that time. His name was Isaac Haight, incidentally a great uncle of Elder David B. Haight then a member of the Twelve. The name was entered into the computer and sure enough, it was in the data base. He was identified as an American missionary living in lodgings in the city of Birmingham. Again, Elder Brough asked if anyone had a name that they would like to search. Again, there was no response. I had not seen the data before, but remembered that my great-great grandparents, John and Mary Godsall, should have been living there at that time. I therefore asked that their names be searched and immediately, they were identified. I knew with certainty that these were my ancestors because as I looked at their children, I was able to identify my great grandmother, Susannah, who later was to become a pioneer traveling in the wagon train that accompanied the Martin handcart company.

Not only did I find their names, I learned that my great-great grandfather was a leather worker, something I didn't know, and also the address where they lived in Birmingham, just a few miles from where I was then living. In addition, I learned that there was a missionary lodger living in their home. His name was Isaac Haight! I am sure that our British friends thought that this was orchestrated. I do believe it was arranged for us to learn these things, but it was not done by Elder Brough or by me.

I visited the address we found in the census information and the old, old house was still standing. In the Church records at our English headquarters, I was able to find much about my ancestors' service in the Church before they emigrated to America in the 1850s that I had never known. Again, my heart has been turned to the fathers as the scriptures foretold.

I am grateful for righteous ancestors who taught the gospel to their children in the home long before there were formal family home evenings. My maternal grandparents were Ida Jesperson and John A. Whetten. They lived in the small community of Colonia Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico. The Whetten children were taught by precept and by observing the examples of their parents.
The early 1920s in Mexico were hard times. The violent revolution had just ended. There was little cash circulating, and most of it was in silver coins. People often conducted their business through barter, or exchange of goods and services.
One day toward the end of summer, Grandpa John came home, having completed a trade and having received as part of the deal 100 pesos in silver coins. He gave the money to Ida with instructions it was to be used to cover the upcoming school expenses of the children.
Ida was grateful for the money but reminded John that they had not paid any tithing all summer long. They had had no cash income, but Ida reminded him that the animals had provided meat, eggs, and milk. Their garden had provided an abundance of fruits and vegetables, and they had made other trades for goods not involving cash. Ida suggested they should give the money to the bishop to cover their tithing.
John was a little disappointed, as the cash would have helped a great deal toward the children’s schooling, but he readily agreed they needed to pay their tithing. He carried the heavy bag to the tithing office and settled with the bishop.
Shortly afterward he received word that a wealthy businessman from the United States, a Mr. Hord, would arrive the next week with several men to spend a few days in the mountains hunting and fishing.
Grandpa John met the party of men at the railroad station not far from Colonia Juárez. He had the string of saddle horses and the necessary pack animals ready to transport the baggage and camp equipment into the mountains. The following week was spent guiding the men and caring for the camp and the animals.
At the end of the week, the men returned to the railroad station to take the train back to the United States. John was paid that day for his work and was given a bag of silver peso coins to cover the other expenses. Once John and his men had been paid, John returned the balance of money to Mr. Hord, who was surprised, as he had not expected any money to be left over. He quizzed John to make sure all costs had been covered, and John answered that all the expenses for the trip had been met, and this was the balance of the funds.
The train whistled. Mr. Hord turned to go and then turned back and tossed the heavy bag of coins to John. “Here, take this home for your boys,” he said. John caught the bag and headed back to Colonia Juárez.
That evening as the family gathered around after supper to hear the stories of the trip, John remembered the bag and brought it in and set it on the table. John said he didn’t know how much was in the bag, so for fun the bag was emptied onto the table—it was quite a pile—and when it was counted, it came to exactly 100 pesos in silver. Of course it was deemed a great blessing that Mr. Hord had decided to make that trip. John and his boys had earned good wages, but the 100 pesos left over was a reminder of the exact same amount of tithing paid the week before. To some, that might be an interesting coincidence, but to the Whetten family, it was clearly a lesson from the Lord that He remembers His promises to those who faithfully pay their tithing.

A little over a month ago, I received a message from a returned missionary who had served with us. He said: “The last while has been tough. Battling anxiety and depression every day has been weighing me down, and it is very difficult. I feel alone and just miserable. I have been praying for the guidance of our Heavenly Father for peace and comfort in what I can do to battle the hardship. … While I was praying, I felt the prompting of the Spirit tell me that I needed to be paying my tithing in full. … I felt the Spirit so strongly, and I immediately felt the urge to do so. With the desire to do so, I felt the prompting that ‘if you pay your tithing, everything will be OK.’ I am still struggling to find peace, but I do have a testimony in our Savior and that through my obedience, I can feel and find the peace I am looking for in my heart and mind. I have recently decided to come back to the Church and to seek the Spirit in all that I do.”

Now he is doing very well. You also may ask Heavenly Father for peace, but the answer may be different than what you anticipate it will be. As long as you seek to know of the Savior and pray to Heavenly Father, He will give you a customized answer for you.

Relating his mother’s sorrow at his rejection of the Buddhist faith for the gospel of Jesus Christ, Elder Komatsu said that he “promised her that if she would permit me to be baptized and later found that through my behavior I had caused her any embarrassment—or committed some shameful or dishonorable act, then all she had to do was ask me to stop going to Church, and I would, without question, obey her will.”
If, however, he were to become a better individual, he asked for permission to continue to attend because it was “the place where I [could] gain an education for an eternal life.” He added, “It is my testimony today that I never had to leave the Church nor cause my mother any concern about my behavior.”

At the same time I had an experience that was very important to me. I used to go down to a local gym to work out. One time when I was down there in the late morning, I noticed Elder Marion D. Hanks of the Seventy. We were the only two in the gym, and he struck up a conversation with me.
After a little small talk, I asked him if I could ask a question.
“Sure, please go ahead,” he said. He was very friendly, very warm.
“I’m trying to decide whether to go on a mission.”
He said, “What are the things that you are thinking about? What are the considerations?”
I said, “Really just one, and it is a question about the amount of time it would take.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
At this point in time I thought I wanted to be a doctor. My father was a doctor, and I wanted to be a doctor. This was before I knew much about organic chemistry.
I said, “I’m 19 now and still have three years of college and then time as an intern and a resident. I expect to be drafted into the military (it was during the Vietnam conflict) plus a mission. You add all of these things up, I’ve got 14 or 15 years to go before I get to real life. If I do all of these things, I won’t get to real life until I’m 33 or 34 years old. That seems like a very late start.”
He said, “Well, that’s an interesting question. You should know that I did not serve a mission. I was in the military during World War II and was not able to serve a mission, but I’ll tell you how I think you should answer the question.”
He asked me, “How old are you now?”
I said, “I’m 19.”
“How old will you be in 14 years if you don’t do any of those things?”
I answered, “I’ll be 33.”
He again asked me, “How old are you now?”
I said, “I’m 19.”
“How old will you be in 14 years if you do all of those things?”
I said, “I’ll be 33.”
Then he asked me. “When you are 33, what would you rather have done? None of those things, half of those things, or all of those things?”
I saw immediately the wisdom of his response, and it just penetrated me. I saw how it fit with what I had seen in the returned missionaries on campus. I decided then and there I was going to serve a mission.

Born in Ixelles, Belgium, 5 October 1935, Charles Didier recalls that his father, Andre, a Belgian Army officer, was captured at the beginning of World War II. After escaping, he stayed hidden and saw his family only during occasional surprise visits. Elder Didier looks back on a time after his own ninth birthday:
“Because the secret police were looking for him [his father], we were searched—and barely escaped. We went to where he was hiding in Antwerp Province, and from there to live with my great-grandmother in Flanders.” Then Belgium was liberated. “I vividly remember the soldiers trying to get away on bicycles, the airplanes coming, the shooting, and the Allied troops coming into the village.”
Like those around him, young Charles was educated in Catholic doctrine as a boy. He attended mass regularly, the only one in his family to do so.
In 1950, while the family was living in Namur, Belgium, and Charles was finishing junior high school, two Latter-day Saint missionaries from the United States knocked on their door. His mother, Gabrielle, let them in and listened. During Easter vacation of the following year, she was baptized in a little font in Brussels, but Charles missed the baptism. He was in Rome to see the Pope on a trip organized by the Catholic church.
Although Charles resisted invitations to attend the local branch, he did attend an English club taught by the missionaries, leaving before the evening’s youth activities started because he “didn’t want to be trapped.” But he was asked to take part in a branch play, and then his mother persuaded him to attend church with her on a Sunday. Soon his sister, Jacqueline, was baptized. When Charles left home to go to the university in Liège, he says, “I attended youth activities from time to time. I did some little things all the time but did not want to participate. I was very shy. I really did not want to be in front of people.”
Then missionary Elder Dewitt Paul challenged him, asking why he would not be baptized, since he was “doing everything a member does,” Elder Didier recalls.
“I said I didn’t see the necessity. I had a good life. I could attend and not have responsibilities. He said, ‘Let’s pray about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith. Then if you have a testimony, I think you’ll recognize that you need to be baptized.’
“And so we prayed about it. I got up from that prayer with a testimony—an answer to my prayers. It was nothing like a light, a voice—just a reassuring influence: ‘Go ahead and do it. There is wisdom. This is my commandment.’” In November 1957, Charles was baptized in a swimming pool in Brussels by Elder Paul.
Traveling between Liège and Namur, he continued his studies at the University of Liège, graduating in 1959 with a degree in economics. Then he entered the reserve officer training program of the Belgian Air Force, finishing his military service as a lieutenant and radar supervisor.
A short time later, stationed only a few kilometers from Liège, he had time to go out with a brown-eyed girl he had met in the Liège Branch, Lucie Lodomez. She had served as a missionary in France with his sister Jacqueline.
When his military service was completed, Lucie and Charles were married in Liège (they were sealed in the Swiss Temple in 1962) and moved into a tiny apartment there. Charles progressed through his job with a timber products importing company, and both he and Lucie grew through Church service. He received more and more responsibility in the Church, eventually becoming president of the 100-member branch in Liège.
But after five years of working in Liège, Charles was restless. He started investigating the possibilities of teaching or continuing his education. Then came “another answer to prayer.” He was asked to move to Frankfurt, Germany, to work as assistant to John E. Carr, director of temporal affairs for the Church in Europe.
The move lasted only nine months. He was asked to go back to Liège and take over the Church distribution center. Upon his return he was immediately called again as Liège Branch president.

So some years ago, when I was a graduate student in Berkley, California, my husband, who was not yet my husband at the time, he and I went to see a movie at a theater in Palo Alto, California not far from the Stanford campus. It was a movie called 35 Up and this movie was actually the most recent iteration in a series, a documentary series that had been made by British filmmakers beginning many years earlier.

The first film in the series was called 7 Up which has nothing to do with the soda pop, but was instead this group of film makers who went and gathered this array of seven-year-old British school children. They filmed them and interviewed them and talked to them about their lives. They took children from a great variety, very many different walks of life; kids who were bound for Eaton and Oxford and other children who had very different futures in line for them.

I had never heard of this series, until we went to see 35 Up. We sat through the interviews and the conversations with this array of people who had been interviewed every seven years of their lives ever since they had been seven. Some had dropped out and ceased to be a part of the project, others were still very much involved with the project.

The final individual, who was featured in this film, was a man whose life was troubled at best. He was actually doing apparently quite a lot better at thirty-five than he had been doing at twenty-eight. My future brother-in-law's wife, my future sister-in-law turned to me and said, "In 28 Up he was homeless and living in a trailer." He was a man who clearly had some issues and I, as I said, was living in Berkeley at the time not far from campus. I would walk to and from campus every day for course work and then back to my apartment. The walk to and from campus would take me along a not very clean street in Berkeley that was filled with panhandlers and drug addicts. When I saw this man in the film, the first thought that occurred to me was, if I saw him in Berkeley, I would cross the street to avoid him. That's the kind of individual I would tend to shy away from.

But in 35 Up this hadn't been the case, you didn't just see the man at 35. They showed clips from all of the earlier movies from 7 Up, from 14 Up, from 21, 28. And so instead of just seeing this deeply troubled, disturbing figure at thirty-five, I also saw the boy. And this boy was beautiful, bright-eyed, vibrant, intelligent, articulate, little lad-completely loveable. Because I had seen the child, I found myself perfectly capable of loving the man because I had some idea of who he really was: of that innocence, of that beauty, of that energy that had characterized him as a seven-year-old. And it completely transformed my perception of him as an adult. Instead of thinking, "I would run from that person," I felt drawn to him. I felt great compassion and great and quite real love for him.

It occurred to me then and it has occurred to me many times in the years since, that this is how and why parents are perfectly capable of loving us as teenagers. I have some teenagers and they're great and I love them. I mean they're quite adorable and pleasant now as they were as small children. But it occurred to me, too, that this gave me at least a little glimpse in to how our Heavenly Father can see us. He doesn't just know the flawed mortal you. He knows who you really are and He can see that and He loves it. If we can see something of that in one another, if we can just see a glimpse of that, how it can transform our sense of one another.

Our marriage date was set for November 25, which was four and a half months from July 6, the date we became engaged. I thought it proper to ask the Lord during that time whether it was right for me to marry Rhonda. My prayers were frequent, and I think heartfelt. “Is Rhonda the person I should marry?”
It was a troubling time for me because there was no answer. I remember very strong answers to prayers about whether I should serve a mission. Heaven seemed close and accessible throughout my mission. Why was it silent now when I was asking the most important question of my life? “Should I marry this person?”
I thought about it carefully. I knew that I loved her. I asked for advice from various people, including my poor religion professor. But I did not feel that I had an answer from my Heavenly Father. Why? Why wouldn’t He answer me?

Finally, the day came. We made the hour-long drive to the Los Angeles Temple, where she received her endowments. Then we were taken to a beautiful sealing room and knelt at the holy altar.
The sealer offered a few words of spiritual instruction and encouragement. Then he began to pronounce some of the most sacred words to be found here in mortality. I looked into her eyes. She was smiling. I began to cry. In that moment, I experienced some of the most powerful and profound spiritual feelings and assurances of my entire life. I knew four things.
I knew that the Gospel was true.
I knew that the promises of the temple ordinances were true.
I knew that we were worthy to be there in the Lord’s house kneeling at the altar.
And I knew that I had heaven’s blessing and support in marrying this daughter of God.

Now in the forty-plus years since that Tuesday morning, Rhonda and I have traveled many miles along life’s journey, and we have walked the covenant path together.
I have learned a lot about what it means to cleave to someone.
I have learned about what it means to partner and to counsel and to serve together.
And I have also learned and have yet to learn just how critical it is to let go of the stuff that interferes— the selfishness, the pride, and the vanity.

I think now I finally understand why my four and a half months of prayer about marrying Rhonda seemed to go unanswered. I also understand why I failed to have clear enough spiritual vision to see the lengthy list of miracles that brought me to her, only some of which I have shared with you today.
I was asking the wrong question. I already knew that we loved each other. I already knew that we could be friends and that our friendship was devoid of the poison that characterizes unhealthy relationships. Instead of asking whether she was right for me, I should have been asking whether I was right for her. Instead of dwelling so much upon what I was getting, I should have been thinking a lot more about what I could be giving.

The image of that team standing in the field stayed with me. I thought that perhaps I could do a painting of the bishop’s team standing in the field with the reins draped over the plow.
I hesitated because it had been nine years since I had painted a picture. Two friends with unusual talent and inspiration offered to help me paint the bishop’s team, and July gave a respite from travel, so I began.
I learned much from those two friends, and in a real way they are in my painting. But I received more help from my two sons. One son took those pictures of the plowed field, for I try always to be very accurate when depicting something in wood or on canvas or with words.
That is another lesson. I could draw back from our children something they had learned when they were young.
The other son decided to do a sculpture of the bishop’s team to be cast in bronze as a companion to my painting. We spent many rewarding hours helping one another.
He took from our barn a couple of old harnesses which have hung essentially untouched for over 50 years. He dusted them off and took them home. He draped one harness over a very patient riding horse. It stood quietly as he arranged the harness in proper order and made detailed sketches of it.
His neighbor had collected some old plows. Among them was a plow of proper vintage, which he also sketched.
And so there came back that which we had given those sons in their youth. As with our other children, they have improved on that which we as parents taught them when they were very young. And if our days are prolonged upon the earth, there comes a second harvest—our grandchildren—and perhaps a third.
That painting of The Bishop’s Team will soon be finished. My son’s sculpture is at the foundry being cast in bronze.
His sculpture, incidentally, is much better than my painting. That is as it should be. His young fingers and mind respond more readily than mine do.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” Heather called to her mother, who looked up from feeding her little sister Beth. When Peter comes home, maybe I can go out and play in the snow with him, Heather thought.
Heather remembered last year when everyone told her she was too little to help build a snowman. But not this year! she decided. Heather eagerly looked out the window, waiting for her brother to come home.
Seeing him coming down the driveway, she opened the door. “Let’s build a snowman,” she shouted as he ran inside.
“Sounds great to me,” said Peter with a smile. “Go get your coat and boots on.”
Peter’s friends Sharon and David came over to help, but they didn’t let Heather join the fun. Even when she tried to stick a piece of coal on the head for the snowman’s eyes, Peter said, “No, Heather, you can’t reach. Let me do it.”
Dad brought Beth outside to see the snowman. “Dad, they won’t let me help,” complained Heather.
“Well, I’m sorry, dear, but it looks like the snowman’s finished.”
After supper Dad tried to explain to Peter that Heather was growing bigger every year and that he needed to include her in doing some things. And he tried to explain to Heather that other people forget sometimes when little brothers or sisters are getting old enough to play with older ones.
Heather went to bed right after supper. She listened to the wind blowing outside and watched the snowflakes swirl through the air wherever the wind took them. Soon she was fast asleep.
The next morning, Heather and Peter went to join their friends outside. They soon discovered that during the night the wind had blown the snowman’s hat away!
“Every snowman needs a hat,” Sharon said. “It’s just not a snowman without a hat.”
The children looked everywhere for the hat, but it was not in sight. “We’ll have to spread out,” said Peter. “Each one take a different direction.”
Heather thought about the snowflakes she had watched last night. Although they had made circles of all sizes as they swirled up and around, they seemed to blow mostly in one direction, toward David’s house. She headed that way. I have to find that hat! she decided. If I do, maybe Peter will see how big I am.
Heather walked for a long time. She even went past David’s house, before she saw Mr. Snowman’s hat hanging high on a limb in the oak tree.
How can I get it down? she wondered. Then she had an idea. A snowball!
Heather made a snowball and threw it at the hat. After four tries the hat fell. Heather picked it up and ran to find Peter.
Peter, Sharon, and David were back at the snowman. They were looking sad. “Maybe we could get another hat or something,” suggested David.
“We don’t have to,” Heather called as she held the hat up for them to see.
Sharon started to take the hat from Heather, but Peter stopped her. “If Heather’s big enough to find the hat, she’s big enough to put it on.”
And that’s exactly what she did!

Many of the most important lessons Robert learned as a child came from the example of his parents and from his experiences in the Queens Ward. As deacons quorum president, Robert learned to respect his priesthood leaders after an experience with the bishop. At that time, the ward met in the Citizen’s League Hall. The sacrament table was on the main floor in front of the stage. The deacons used to take the sacrament trays, climb up onto the stage, put the trays away, and then run and jump off the stage, grab another tray, and repeat the process until all the trays were put away. “I came sailing off of that stage,” says Elder Hales, “and our new bishop was standing there. He caught me in flight. I said, ‘Well, everyone else is doing it,’ and he said, ‘Yes, but you are the president of the deacons quorum.’ The bishop said he wanted the sacrament taken care of properly, with reverence. That was when I began to learn an important lesson. I’ve appreciated priesthood leaders who have taken the time to teach me.”

A good example of someone experiencing an abundant life as a result of looking outside themselves and focusing on the needs of others are my parents. Their second child and my older brother Ken was born deaf. Years ago it was common for young deaf children to begin their formal education when they were around 4 years old. As a result my parents would drive Sunday evenings for 2 1/2 /hours from their home in Mackay, Idaho and drop their young son off for the week at the State School for the Deaf and Blind in Gooding, Idaho. They would then pick him up that Friday afternoon and drive back home to Mackay for the short weekend and then repeat the process weekly.

It did not take long for my parents to realize that in their minds this was not the best way to raise a family so they made the decision to move from their home in Mackay and the area they loved and moved to Gooding. They put aside their personal interests and focused on what was best for their family. Little did they know that a few years later another daughter and son would later join the family that were also deaf. I do not ever recall my parents ever saying "Why us?" All I remember was my parents being actively involved in the lives of each of their children. They raised us in a gospel centered home and were great examples to us of serving others. They made the most of a difficult situation and proceeded to live their own version of an abundant life. They did this by always putting the needs and interests of their family and others ahead of their own. For the last several years they have served faithfully in their church callings, served a mission together in Nauvoo, served countless hours in the temple, and provided countless hours of service to their children and grandchildren. The key component in my opinion that allowed my parents to experience their abundant life is the fact that they forgot about themselves and instead have always looked for ways to serve others.

It was a bright, clear morning, and I was preparing to give a bridal shower. I love giving parties—any kind, any time, any number of people. Why, then, couldn’t I shake this black heaviness that kept threatening to reduce me to tears? A recent family problem had brought my husband and me many sleepless nights and much despair, and we had been pleading with the Lord for help.
Although I had offered silent prayers all morning, I could not suppress my anguish. Past experience had taught me that a kind Heavenly Father could lift me from the depths when I was sufficiently in tune. But there was little time left before I would need to have pulled myself together to look after my guests.
Only an hour before the party, I looked up to see the Relief Society compassionate service leader coming up the path. She looked at me for a long moment and said, “I felt I needed to come see you this morning.” My first thought was that there must be some problem. I was the Relief Society president, and I knew I must take whatever time was needed.
Then Norma’s arms were around me. She held me and told me how much she loved me. This dear woman had been quietly putting her arms around sisters in need for a long time. Many had recounted their joy at having her appear miraculously when they needed her most.
Now I was encircled by her love when I needed it most. The tears I had been fighting all morning ran freely. But what had been tears of desperation and pain now turned to the sweet release that cleanses the soul and brightens the outlook.
Ten minutes later she was off down the walk, and I knew that an angel had ministered to my needs that day.

My bishop had powerful counselors, and for reasons I did not understand then, more than once he called me on the phone at home and said, “Hal, I need you to go with me as a companion to make some visits.” Once, it was to take me with him to the home of a widow living alone and without any food in the house. On the way home he stopped his car, opened his scriptures, and told me why he had treated that widow as if she had the power not only to care for herself but would, at some time in the future, be able to help others.
Another visit was to a man long absent from the Church. My bishop invited him back to be with the Saints. I felt my bishop’s love for someone who seemed to me an unlovable and rebellious enemy.
On yet another occasion we visited a home where two little girls were sent to meet us at the door by their alcoholic parents. The little girls said through the screen door that their mother and father were asleep. The bishop kept talking to them, smiling and praising their goodness and their bravery, for what seemed to me 10 minutes or more. As I walked away at his side, he said quietly, “That was a good visit. Those little girls will never forget that we came.”