Gospel Story Finder

My grandmother was also at the temple that day. I recall her excitement at seeing the temple lights as we had arrived in Cardston. Years later, after retiring from her job in Calgary, she moved to Cardston and gave many hours of service in the temple. She loved to play the organ and help inspire reverence there. Her testimony and love for the Savior was evidenced through her kindness to everyone around her. She is to me an example of a strong Latter-day Saint woman.

Many children, and some adults, may for personal reasons find a 24-hour fast difficult. It can be, in the words of Isaiah, felt that the fast has “afflicted [their] soul.” Wise parents recognize that possibility and so are careful to follow the counsel of President Joseph F. Smith: “Better to teach them the principle, and let them observe it when they are old enough to choose intelligently.”12
I saw the blessing in that counsel recently. One of my grandsons had found a 24-hour fast beyond his powers of endurance. But his wise parents still placed the principle in his heart. One of his school friends recently lost a young cousin to accidental death. My grandson asked his mother on fast day, at about the time he had always felt the fast was too hard to continue, whether it would make his grieving friend feel better if he continued his fast.
His question was the confirmation of President Joseph F. Smith’s counsel. My grandson had come to the point where he not only understood the principle of the fast, but it had also been planted in his heart. He had come to feel that his fasting and prayers would lead to a blessing from God for someone in need. If he lives the principle often enough, it will bring the wonderful effects in his own life, as promised by the Lord. He will have the spiritual blessing of power to receive inspiration and greater capacity to resist temptation.

I hung my schoolbag in the closet and saw my reflection in the full-length mirror on the door. I stopped and looked at my loose ponytail, my wrinkled shirt, and my sagging socks. Words from my Primary teacher came back to me: “You are a special daughter of our Heavenly Father. He has many blessings in store for you in your future.”
I leaned forward and peered into the mirror, wishing I could see the future. What would I be like when I was 12 or 22? Would I be pretty? Would I be smart? Would I marry in the temple? Would I have beautiful children? These were my dreams, but were these the blessings God had in store for me?
“What are you looking at?” It was Mom’s soft voice.
In the mirror’s reflection I saw Mom standing behind me in the doorway.
“Me,” I said. “It’s just me in the mirror.”
Mom came and looked over my shoulder. “‘Just you’ is someone very special,” she said.
“That’s what my Primary teacher said. She said Heavenly Father has many blessings in store for me. What does my life have in store?”
“Come to my room. I want to show you something,” Mom said.
In her bedroom Mom opened a small box and lifted out a silver handheld mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the letter B etched on the back.
“Did Heavenly Father bless Great-Grandma?” I asked.
“Yes, He did,” Mom said.
“Was Great-Grandma happy with her life?”
“Yes. It wasn’t exactly as she planned. Some of it was very hard, but she put her trust in God, and those experiences helped her become more like Him.”
“I guess I don’t really need to see the future,” I said, placing the silver mirror gently back in its box. “I’ll just trust in Heavenly Father and follow Him.”
“I’m sure God has a wonderful life in store for you,” Mom said. “And if you follow Him, in the end, the face you see in the mirror will reflect His image. And that would truly be a dream come true.”

When I was 12 years old, my family lived on a farm in Brazil, far from the city. That December my brother and I were harvesting nuts for another farm owner when it suddenly began to rain. For days the rain continued so heavily that we couldn’t work.
It was almost Christmas, and our family was running out of food. My mother was worried we wouldn’t have a Christmas dinner, so she asked my older brother and me to ask the farm owner for the money we had earned. It wouldn’t be much, but it would buy a little food for our family at a time when others were preparing their holiday feasts.
My brother and I walked several miles on a muddy road to get to the farm owner’s house. When we arrived, the owner was surprised. “What brings you here on such a rainy day?” he asked. We explained our situation, and he said, “I don’t have any cash to pay you with, but I can pay you with a check.” We accepted and left quickly so we could make it into town to cash the check and buy the groceries we needed.
By the time we got to town, almost every business had closed for the Christmas holiday. We were exhausted, and our efforts to cash the check were in vain.
When we arrived home without the groceries, my mother and eight brothers and sisters were very disappointed. All we had was the check, which at the moment was worthless to us. Christmas Eve came without any presents and with little food. We ate a dinner of rice and went to bed.
We arose on Christmas morning to the sound of our neighbors celebrating outside, but we remained inside, hoping for a miracle that would put food on our table. To our surprise, just before lunch there was a knock on the door. There stood one of our neighbors, holding an enormous bowl covered with a towel.
“I came to bring this to you,” she said. My mother gratefully accepted the bowl, and when we looked inside, we found it was full of Christmas foods. To us it was a banquet, a true miracle!
That Christmas meal was the best present I ever received because it fed us on such a special day. Although our neighbor was not aware of our circumstances, I know that our Heavenly Father was, and He worked through her to feed us that Christmas. I know that when we have no other way out, the Lord in His infinite mercy and goodness sends great miracles into our lives. And as our family learned that Christmas, we can serve the Lord—as our neighbor did—by bringing miracles into the lives of others.

What do you do when you’re not quite 16, but you desperately want to attend a dance at your school? Several girls from the Bountiful, Utah, area came up with a solution that worked well—they invited their dads.
Anissa Johnson, Shauna Howard, Cindee Olsen, Jill Stauffer, and Shari Salmon all found unique ways to invite their fathers and planned a dinner together before the dance. In accordance with the dance’s tradition, the fathers and daughters all wore matching shirts.
“It was a little strange when we first got to the dance and there were all our friends,” said Shari. “But the strange feeling only lasted a few minutes, and I didn’t think about it anymore; I was having too much fun!”
Cindee summed up one of the reasons she and her friends had such a great time with their fathers. “I didn’t have to impress him,” she said. “I already knew he liked me.”

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

One day, after we had reached the Coppermine River, we were paddling on the river during a blizzard. It was the end of July and the snow was flying! The current was powerful, but the head-wind was so strong we were struggling for progress. Bob said, “Dad, look at the shore.” I did … We were standing still. And when we stopped paddling, the wind blew us upstream! So we stopped and pulled over to the shore and gathered what wood we could for a fire to warm our hands.

Another time we were stuck on a boulder in a bad set of rapids, and it seemed as though we might stay there forever. But after a prayer and a quick maneuvering of the boat, we broke free.

Once we reached the river, we were determined to regain our lost time. We didn’t mind moving, because when we’d stop we’d start to chill. Even at night we slept cold. The ground was ice, and the wind was cold. We had some small containers of fuel, but just enough to warm our food. And so we paddled and rushed on. Our worst day on the river we traveled 5 kilometers. Our best day we traveled 80 kilometers, and we went over the falls and flooded our canoe at the last set of rapids out of eight we covered that day. The map showed eight sets of rapids, and we decided, because of our haste, to run them without studying them first, a foolish thing to do.

We slowly regained our lost time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small Eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had sailed over every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we carried our equipment around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.

To any father who is trying to help his son decide to go on a mission, I would say that the most important thing is to know your son. Not everyone needs to go on a trip down the Coppermine River. The same kind of building experiences can take place at home, working in the garage together, playing a game of tennis, maybe just going for a walk where the two of you can be alone. I wouldn’t have gone on the Coppermine River if I hadn’t felt inspired to do so.

And to you young men who know you should be going on a mission, I would remind you that for every person there will be wilderness areas, Gethsemanes, Sacred Groves—places where we learn to rely on the Lord completely and call on him in fervent prayer. Don’t try to tempt the Lord by placing yourself in a dangerous situation, but be prepared to follow the promptings of his Spirit, wherever they may lead you.

Once you make a decision concerning whom you would desire to marry, may you have the courage to move forward. After a stake conference in Tokyo many years ago, a young Japanese convert, perhaps 26 years of age, drove Sister Monson and me to the hotel where we were to stay. He was extremely neat and meticulous in all that he did. The car was polished to a brightness seldom seen. He even wore white gloves. I engaged him in conversation and as a result learned that he had a girlfriend who was a member and whom he had dated for some time. I asked him if he loved her. He replied, “Oh, yes, Brother Monson.”

My next question was obvious: “Does she love you?”

“Oh, yes, Brother Monson.”

I then suggested, “Why don’t you ask her to marry you?”

“Oh, I am too shy to ask.”

I then recited, for his benefit, the words of the hymn, “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” with emphasis on the phrase, “Fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake.”4

Some months later I received a lovely letter from my Japanese friend and his new bride. They sent the wedding announcement. They thanked me for my urging and added: “Our favorite hymn is ‘Come, Come, Ye Saints.’ We took fresh courage. God did not forsake us. Thank you.”

What does one pray for when your eternal sweetheart is at the gate of Heaven? I must confess my initial prayers as my Darla went into cardiac arrest were for her to live. But, as my son offered a priesthood blessing and was unable to pronounce life, I knew the will of God. So my prayers turned to understanding the will of the Father and what he would have me learn and do. On the very last night before Darla left this mortality, I sensed her proximity to her mortal exit, and asked my children to have the night alone with my wife. Although she was unconscious, I read her a collection of scriptures. I told her what lessons I learned and bore witness of her next journey. I expressed my eternal love. I held her non-responsive hand and offered a prayer to our Eternal Father. As I was praying I had an interesting feeling come over me. It was as if the Spirit was prompting me to ask whatever I desired, and it would be granted. As I pondered this feeling briefly, I responded by saying, Father, if it be thy will, please take my sweetheart to her eternal state. I then laid my hands on her head and offered the last mortal priesthood blessing she would have.

Often for us to understand the will of the Father, it requires us to go beyond our mortal desires and short-sightedness. We must as Paul taught see the things that are not seen. I know the love Darla and I share is not limited to the boundaries of mortality, but expands to the eternities. I have been blessed by countless tender mercies to know she is my eternal companion, and though we are separated by a veil, we walk together in spirit. I know she is performing a heavenly work that required her to go beyond my understanding, but my faith relieves all doubts. The scales of my mortal eyes have fallen. I have obtained a peace. It is the unusual peace described by the Savior, Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid (John 14:27). With eyes now opened by the Lord, my troubled heart was healed, and I was not afraid of the future. I could also declare, "Whereas I was blind, now I see."

He was always tall. “By the time I was 13, I was already 182 cm (six feet). But my real growth spurt didn’t begin until my sophomore year in high school.” He reached his full height by his senior year, and, as with most tall kids, it was assumed he would play basketball. That was not to be.
“I never really liked basketball,” he noted. “The other kids and the coaches always kind of made fun of me, telling me I couldn’t jump.”
His mother urged him, instead, to try a local recreation league volleyball team. “I had never had so much fun in any sport before,” Chambers says. “I was hooked! Even though I wasn’t very good, I went home and told Mom that volleyball was the sport for me!”
Great club coaching helped him find his footing in the game, and because of his prodigious height, they made him a middle blocker. Finally, the burden of being tall began to pay-off. After a season of club volleyball, he was anxious to join his high school team and test his new skills. But disaster struck in his very first scrimmage.
“I jumped and extended myself to try and block a ball, and when I came down, I landed on the foot of the guy on the other side of the net and broke my ankle,” Chambers recounted. “I had to wear a boot everywhere after that and I didn’t get to play at all my freshman season.”
“It was frustrating to have made progress in this new sport I really liked, then lose that whole season.”

Benjie was smiling from ear to ear when I picked him up after Primary. In his chubby hand he held out a picture of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus in a manger. “See, Dano. Baby Jesus.”
“Did you get that in Nursery, Benjie?”
His head bobbed vigorously up and down as he proudly displayed the picture.
“Hello, Daniel.” Sister Williams, Benjie’s teacher, was holding her brand-new baby. “Benjie sure had fun in Nursery today. We had a play about the birth of Jesus, and he played the part of Joseph.”
Baby Jesus was all that Benjie talked about all week. For family home evening, Mom brought out the manger scene, and Benjie arranged each figure in the stable. Instead of having the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals all nicely spaced out, he crowded them around the manger, “so that they can see Him real good.”
It wasn’t until the Saturday afternoon before Christmas that Mom could take us Christmas shopping.
When Benjie saw all the decorations in the store, his mouth dropped open. We walked past mountains of toy trucks and rows of new bikes. There was even a “Christmas elf” dressed in a green top and red tights, handing out tiny candy canes to all the children.
I was checking out a display of radio-controlled cars, when I felt a tug on my coat. Benjie’s brow was all puckered. “Where’s Jesus?”
“What?”
“Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
I followed his gaze as he looked up and down the rows of fake Christmas trees and tinsel and toys. He’s right, I thought. There’s not a sign of Jesus anywhere, let alone shepherds and Wise Men. But how do you explain all that to a not-yet-three-year-old?
Fortunately Mom is pretty good at things like that. She leaned over, cupped his chin in her hands and looked him right in the eyes. “Benjie, lots of people don’t know about Jesus. They think that Christmastime is only about presents and Santa Claus. But we know that the real reason we celebrate Christmas is Jesus—right?”
He nodded solemnly.
She glanced at the banner hanging from the ceiling—Merry Xmas!—and sadly added to me, “The world has taken Christ right out of Christmas.” Then she looked at her watch. “Uh-oh. We have to hurry—tonight’s the ward party.”
Mom had helped plan the party for three months. This year our ward was doing something different. Instead of a fancy dinner with Santa Claus giving goodies or small toys to the little ones before someone read the Christmas story from the Bible, the cultural hall would be decorated like a marketplace in Bethlehem. Everyone would come dressed in biblical clothes. “Daniel, it’ll be just like we’re there on the night Jesus was born,” she’d told me.
I didn’t think much of getting dressed in a costume, but Benjie’s excitement kind of rubbed off on me. I helped him find his bathrobe and tied a rope around his waist. Then I put on a robe that used to be Dad’s and made a head-covering with a towel and a couple of safety pins.
When we arrived at the church, Mom dashed to help get the food ready. The sidewalk leading to the front door was lined with paper sacks with a flickering candle, nestled in sand, in each one. Benjie had to look into each sack at the tiny flame. I held his hand because I was afraid that he’d try to blow out the candles.
The foyer and hallway were dimly lit. A “Roman soldier” who looked an awful lot like Brother Bingham, our home teacher, stood guard. Benjie gave him his “taxes”—a can of vegetable soup for the needy—and solemnly signed a big squiggly B on the “census.”
In the cultural hall, white fluorescent Christmas tree decorations sparkled like stars. There were food shops, a tailor shop, and even a gift shop. It did look sort of like I thought Bethlehem would.
When Benjie spotted the bright star shining above the manger on the stage, he made a beeline toward it. We had to stand right there by the stage while he sang the first half of “There Was Starlight on the Hillside”* over and over. Finally he saw the cardboard lamb and chicks in a pen in the corner of the room and ran over to see them.
After that, we were hungry, so we “bought” our supper at the little shops, using the “gold” in the bags we were given by a “centurion.” Benjie would not have been more pleased if it had been real gold instead of spray-painted rocks.
We sat on a blanket on the floor because “there was no room in the inn,” and munched on pita bread and orange slices. Benjie had wanted to sit right by the stage, and he kept looking up at the manger. Finally he asked, “Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
“He hasn’t been born yet,” I told him.
“Oh.”
Then he started yawning. Before long he lay down on the blanket. Mom came over and sat beside us. She gently smoothed Benjie’s sweaty hair from his forehead.
He was asleep when “Mary” and “Joseph” walked through the crowd to the stage. We all sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,”† and Brother Dickson began to read from the Bible as some of the grown-ups acted out the Christmas story.
“‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger …’”‡
Everyone was quiet as Sister Williams, who was Mary, cradled her baby in her arms. He made some cooing sounds that sounded just like Brother Sampson’s doves.
Then Benjie’s voice, soft with wonder, broke the stillness: “There’s Jesus, Dano! There’s Jesus!”
My little brother had awakened and was standing, pointing excitedly at the manger scene. His face was beaming with joy. I looked over at Mom. She was smiling, her eyes shiny with tears.
I felt all warm inside. Suddenly it was as though I wasn’t in the cultural hall dressed in Dad’s old robe at all. Somehow, it felt like I really was in Bethlehem—on that long-ago night.
Nobody wanted to break the magic of that moment. Then someone started quietly singing: “Silent night! Holy night!” One by one, all of us joined in: “All is calm, all is bright …”**
I put my arm around Benjie and quietly said, “Yeah, Benjie. Jesus. He truly is the Son of God.”

Let me conclude with an old Indian legend. Many years ago, Indian youths would go away in solitude to prepare for manhood. One such youth hiked into a beautiful valley. There he fasted, and on the third day he decided to test himself against the mountain. He put on his buffalo-hide shirt, threw his blanket over his shoulders, and set off to climb the peak.
When he reached the top, he could see forever, and his heart swelled with joy. Then he heard a rustle at his feet. Looking down, he saw a snake. Before he could move, the snake spoke: “I am about to die. It is too cold for me up here, and I am freezing. There is no food, and I am starving. Put me under your shirt and take me down to the valley.”
“Oh, no,” said the youth. “I know your kind. You are a rattlesnake. If I pick you up, you will bite me, and I will die.”
“Not so,” said the snake. “I will treat you differently. If you do this for me, you will be special. I will not harm you.”
The youth withstood for a while, but this was a very persuasive snake with beautiful markings. At last the youth tucked it under his shirt and carried it down to the valley. There he laid it gently on the grass. Suddenly, the snake coiled, rattled, and struck, biting him on the leg.
“But you promised—” cried the youth.
“You knew what I was when you picked me up,” said the snake as it slithered away. (From Iron Eyes Cody, “But You Promised,” Reader’s Digest, June 1989, p. 131.)

Months later when I was serving as a missionary in Peru, I was reminded of my difficult scuba-diving experience as I invited people to strengthen their faith and change their lives. One family my companion and I especially loved to visit was the Rumays. Carina and Enrique and their two teenage daughters, Karen and Nicole, welcomed us often and quickly stole our hearts. It wasn’t long before Carina, Karen, and Nicole accepted the gospel and joined the church.
Enrique, however, needed a bit of extra help. Our message differed from what his upbringing had exposed him to, so it took us a while to earn his trust. Enrique had various concerns. The main aspect of the gospel that troubled him was the Book of Mormon. He had never heard of this book and had a hard time reading and understanding it. Its unfamiliarity made Enrique feel unsure.
At that point, Enrique was like me when I swam back up to the water’s surface: everyone else seemed to be descending with ease, while I was frozen with fear. Also like me, all that Enrique needed to be successful was some extra help.
This help came to him in various forms. He had missionaries to help him address his concerns and feel the Spirit. He also had ward members who fellowshipped him and taught him about his role as a father. The biggest help of all, though, was Enrique’s own family.
Even before their baptism, the Rumays made a habit of holding family prayer and scripture study. They got Enrique a set of scriptures with larger text and an audio version so that he could study the Book of Mormon more easily. These simple efforts helped Enrique immensely. At no time did anyone pressure him; they simply supported him. Through their actions, they told him, “We know you can do this.”
This help allowed Enrique discover for himself the power of the Book of Mormon. One day he announced that he had listened to the entire book and that he knew it was the word of God. About four months after the baptism of his wife and daughters, Enrique took the same step and was baptized too.
Enrique says he’s thankful for the help and patience he received that allowed him to reach where he is today. As a missionary, I felt blessed to have witnessed this family’s example of love as they helped their husband and father overcome his doubts. I was also grateful that I had my challenging scuba-diving experience that allowed me to relate in a small way to how Enrique felt and how other investigators might feel during the conversion process.

Years ago, I went with my daughter to the temple. She was the last to be baptized that day. A temple worker asked my daughter if she could stay longer to be baptized for everyone whose names were ready that day. She said yes.
I watched my daughter step into the baptismal font. The baptisms began. Water streamed down her face each time she came out of the water. She was asked again and again, “Can you do more?” Each time, she said yes in a determined voice. She stayed until the last person on the list had been baptized in the name of Jesus Christ.
I still remember the feeling of light and peace as we walked together from the temple. That is how temple service lifts and changes us.

Dear Topher,
You asked me in the letter I got from you yesterday if I was afraid to die. I guess I should be, kind of. But I don’t feel scared. Mom told me what Grandma Clanton said before she died about four years ago. She said she would be leaving Mom and the rest of us for just a little while and to not be frightened. She said she’d be happy and that we shouldn’t worry about her. That helped me a lot.
Another reason I’m not afraid is because I have a testimony of Jesus. He died so that we might all live again and so that families can be forever. I have an older brother in Heaven. Maybe I’ll be able to see him. And my Uncle Eugene. And my ancestors. I kind of got to know some of them when my parents were working on their family history. One of them, Nathan Twiggs, carried a chair on his back all the way across the plains—and not just so he would have something to sit on when he got tired walking! His grandfather, Thomas Twiggs, made it and used to sit on it with Nathan on his knees and read the Book of Mormon to him. Dad said it was in that chair that Thomas got his testimony.
If I could choose between staying or leaving, I would stay here on earth for a while because when I think of leaving my family, I feel sad. But Heavenly Father knows best, and Mom said that we were all probably both happy and sad when we left our heavenly parents to come down here.
Oh, I wish I could see that play you are going to be in, Topher! It sounds like it will be fun. I laughed when you said you brought a friend to dress rehearsal and you pointed to Bigfoot and said he was your bishop, and your friend said, “No wonder everyone is so reverent—I wouldn’t want to upset him, either!”
Take care of yourself, Topher. Kiss a kangaroo for me. I think they’re cute.
Your pen pal,
Cindy
Dear Topher,
I’m Cindy’s mother. You probably don’t know me. Or maybe you do, a little. Cindy most likely told you about her family in some of her letters. She’s told us a good deal about you.
Cindy passed away last week, Topher. She wanted me to tell you good-bye and that she would see you later. She said for you to work on your testimony every day because it will help make your trials much easier to bear. And you know what, Topher? It does. It does!
Write us when you can. We would like to keep in touch.
Love,
Cindy’s mom
Dear Cindy’s family,
I cried a lot when you told me about Cindy. Then, well, it’s hard to explain, but a warm feeling came over me. It felt like the sun when it pushes down through a bunch of dark, wet clouds. I know Cindy is happy, just as she said she would be. And what she said about you asking me to work on my testimony? Well, I am. I want one, too, so that when things get hard or confusing I can be strong—and happy, even when I’m sad.
I’ll write again soon.
Love,
Topher

Ten-year-old Ellen Pucell refused to move another step. For endless days and endless kilometers she’d been dragging herself over snowy, frigid ground. Now, with the merciless cold biting through her ragged clothes, the pain in her feet had grown unbearable, and Ellen, or Nellie as everyone called her, sat down shivering and couldn’t go on. Her older sister, Maggie, coaxed her to get up. But while her weary friends trudged on ahead, struggling to pull handcarts through the snow, Nellie still sat, unable to move her stiffened legs.
Maggie again pleaded with her young sister to walk with her before the pioneer company left them behind. As their hope of catching up faded, a horse-drawn carriage approached them. The driver, one of the leaders lucky enough to have a wagon, stopped to ask about the young girls. When Maggie explained the situation, Nellie was lifted into the back of the wagon, where her feet dangled over the edge as they hurried to catch the others.
Nellie’s family had sailed from Liverpool, England, in May of 1856 with a large group of Latter-day Saints. After a safe voyage on the ship Horizon, they docked in Boston, then traveled by train to Iowa. From there Nellie had set out with her parents, her sister, Maggie, and more than five hundred other pioneers. They were bound for peace and new homes in the Salt Lake Valley. Too poor to afford wagons or the animals to pull them, the great majority chose to build smaller, two-wheeled wagons called handcarts, which they would pull themselves. Only the most necessary provisions could be carried. Extra bedding, clothing, household supplies, and even extra food had to remain behind.
For the first few weeks the handcart company enjoyed good weather, but in October early snowstorms and bitter cold slowed down the pioneers.
Nellie’s family suffered along with the rest. Her mother became ill and had to be pulled for some distance in their cart. Nellie’s father slipped into the waters of one of the rivers they crossed, and because there was no dry clothing or warm shelter, he was bitterly cold. The family’s food supply grew scarce, and the snow hid any fuel that they might have gathered for a fire.
Nellie’s father died on October 22, 1856, from hunger and exposure to the cold. Five days later her mother died too. Graves could be dug only in the snow because the early winter had frozen the ground. Nellie and Maggie wearily and sadly walked on alone. They watched as more of the company died and the weather’s cold fierceness strengthened.
One day as Nellie and her sister made their way at the head of the group, two men appeared and motioned for them to come closer. At first the girls refused but soon decided that the men meant no harm. The men gave Nellie some money and instructed her to buy something to put on her feet at the trappers’ trading post they were nearing. Nellie gratefully accepted the money and the chance to cover her bare feet, which had long since grown numb with cold.
In Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young had called for volunteers to meet the handcart company on the plains. When the volunteers finally reached the company, near Laramie, Wyoming, they found the pitiful group nearly buried by the snow. Nellie’s feet were badly frozen. The rescue party gathered her and the remaining members of the company into their wagons and returned to Salt Lake, arriving on November 30.
Nearly everyone in the handcart company had endured painfully frozen feet, hands, and ears and had witnessed the deaths of family members and friends. The doctor had to amputate Nellie’s feet. There was no skin to cushion the bone, so she was left with throbbing sores that never healed.
Nellie and her sister eventually moved south from the Salt Lake Valley to Cedar City. Here Nellie married William Unthank and reared their six children. With a leather apron slid under her damaged legs, Nellie crawled about their small home on her knees, keeping it spotless.
Nellie willingly worked at whatever she could to help provide for her family. Along with other jobs, she took in other people’s clothes to wash, and made articles to sell to add to the family income. If anyone offered food or assistance, she insisted on repaying the favor. As a way of showing gratitude, she gathered her children once a year to clean the church meetinghouse. While the boys carried water, the girls washed windows, and Nellie scrubbed the floors.
William carved wooden “cup feet” for Nellie, but they only irritated her never-healing stumps. Later, through donations, wooden legs were given to Nellie, but these she only wore on special occasions, because they added to her constant pain.
Despite poverty and pain, Nellie rarely complained. She had come to know her Heavenly Father in her sufferings. From the shoes provided for her bare feet, the carriage sent when she couldn’t go on, help given to her through a lifetime of affliction, Nellie Pucell Unthank knew she could count on the Lord.

Not long ago I attended a stake conference that was not far away, and by hurrying I was able to get home early enough on Sunday afternoon to have the privilege of attending the sacrament service in our own home ward. Throughout the Church all around the world, thousands and thousands of families attend sacrament meeting on the day of rest—the Lord’s day—most of them led by the priesthood bearer of the home, whose responsibility it is to guide the family in keeping the commandments of God. The Lord said, “And that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day.” (D&C 59:9.)
It was interesting to watch people going to the chapel, some walking down the street, others coming by automobiles and turning into the parking lot. From all around they were gathering—men, women, youth, and children. Many were coming as families.
Families usually consist of a father, mother, and children, but this is not always the case. Sometimes there is not a mother or a father, and sometimes no children. Often there is one person living alone. In years gone by, our family was larger, but now it consists of only two.
When we entered the chapel, Bishop Salisbury, in his usual gracious manner, greeted us with a warm handclasp. As we went down the aisle, Brother Doxey, our home teacher, nodded a greeting and we responded similarly—an affectionate greeting in the spirit of a handshake except that distance separated us. And there was Brother Jensen, who was formerly our home teacher, sitting with his wife and daughters. We could also see Sister Nielsen and Sister Whitney, the lovely Relief Society visiting teachers who come to our home and bring a ray of spiritual sunshine to cheer up Sister Hunter. A couple moved over and let us sit by them, and someone on the row behind touched us on the shoulder and whispered that they were glad to see us.
We were among friends. We were among more than friends—we were with both brothers and sisters—literally. The organ was being played softly, and there were a few moments of quiet meditation before the big hand of the clock in the chapel was at the highest point, indicating the time of commencement of a sacred hour.
One of the counselors to the bishop, in a dignified but friendly manner, came to the pulpit and gave a word of greeting and announced the name of the hymn we were to sing.
The priests sat quietly at the sacrament table. I looked at each of them—well-groomed, reverent, serious. Many young men of their age were spending the day in recreation or sports, but they had come to the house of the Lord. Seated in front of them was a row of deacons. They, too, were well groomed and well behaved, taking seriously the responsibility of their first office in the Aaronic Priesthood.
As I looked at these priests and deacons, there came a realization that they were from good homes with parents who loved them and who taught them to keep the commandments of the Lord. Then came thoughts of others who have an interest in them: their bishop and his counselors, home teachers, priesthood leaders and teachers, those who are helping them in the Sunday School and the young men’s organization, Scouting and Exploring leaders, and an array of persons who are giving their time and effort to teach and encourage them in their young years.
The time will not be long, I thought, until these priests and deacons will be in the mission field to fulfill the commandment given to all faithful elders in the Church: “Go ye into all the world, preach the gospel to every creature, acting in the authority which I have given you, baptizing in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” (D&C 68:8.)
After a hymn and prayer, and while the priests were preparing the sacrament, we were led in singing:
God, our Father, hear us pray;
Send thy grace this holy day;
As we take of emblems blest,
On our Savior’s love we rest.
(Hymns, no. 8.)
A priest kneeled over the broken bread and prayed: “That they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments.” (D&C 20:77.) The deacons dispersed throughout the chapel to serve the broken bread. One of them came to our row and held the silver tray while I partook. Then I held the tray so Sister Hunter could partake, and she held it for the person next to her. Thus the tray went down the row, each serving and being served.
I thought of the events that took place on the evening nearly two thousand years ago when Jesus was betrayed. He had sent Peter and John into Jerusalem to make ready the Passover. This included, as was the custom, the sacrifice of a lamb. The laws of sacrifice had been followed down through the centuries since commenced by Father Adam, looking toward the time when the Savior would make the great sacrifice for mankind by the shedding of His own blood and death on the cross.
After the Master and the Twelve had partaken of the feast of the Passover on that occasion, “Jesus took bread, and blessed, and brake it, and gave to them, and said, Take, eat: this is my body.
“And he took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them: and they all drank of it.
“And he said unto them, This is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many.” (Mark 14:22–24.)
Thus was the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper introduced to replace sacrifice and be a reminder to all those who partake that He truly made a sacrifice for them; and to be an additional reminder of the covenants they have made to follow Him, keep His commandments, and be faithful to the end.
While thinking about this, the admonition of Paul in his letter to the church in Corinth came to my mind. He said: “Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread, and drink this cup of the Lord, unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord.
“But let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of that bread, and drink of that cup.
“For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord’s body.” (1 Cor. 11:27–29.)
I was troubled. I asked myself this question: “Do I place God above all other things and keep all of His commandments?” Then came reflection and resolution. To make a covenant with the Lord to always keep His commandments is a serious obligation, and to renew that covenant by partaking of the sacrament is equally serious. The solemn moments of thought while the sacrament is being served have great significance. They are moments of self-examination, introspection, self-discernment—a time to reflect and to resolve.
By this time the other priest was kneeling at the table, praying that all who should drink “may do it in remembrance of the blood of thy Son, which was shed for them; … that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them.” (D&C 20:79.)
There was quiet meditation, the silence broken only by the voice of a tiny babe whose mother quickly held him close. Anything that breaks the silence during this sacred ordinance seems out of place; but surely the sound of a little one would not displease the Lord. He, too, had been cradled by a loving mother at the beginning of a mortal life that commenced in Bethlehem and ended on the cross of Calvary.
The young men concluded serving the sacrament. Then followed words of encouragement and instruction, a closing hymn and prayer; and the sacred moments “unmarred by earthly care” had come to a close. On the way home we saw several boys playing ball in the street and a family returning in their motor home from a weekend in the mountains. This thought came to my mind: What a wonderful thing it would be if all persons had an understanding of the purpose of baptism and the willingness to accept of it; the desire to keep the covenants made in that ordinance to serve the Lord and live His commandments; and, in addition, the desire to partake of the sacrament on the Sabbath day to renew those covenants to serve Him and be faithful to the end.

Pete Penguin had lived in the zoo all his life. It was a nice place to live. There were flat rocks warmed by the sun, a pool with a sloped back to slide on, and lots of people who came to see the penguins.
Pete liked the visitors. Every morning he groomed his black and white feathers so that he would look beautiful when the visitors came.
“Isn’t he pretty?” people said as Pete strutted by.
Pete never tired of their admiring words. He was very proud.
One day, as he was showing off for the visitors, Pete heard two children giggling. Why are they laughing? he wondered as he moved closer to the fence of his pen.
“Look at him,” a girl cried. “Doesn’t he look funny?” She pointed at Pete.
“He looks like a little old man in a suit,” a boy said, and they both broke into peals of laughter.
“All he needs is a tie,” the girl said, still giggling.
“Silly bird!”
The children moved on toward the lion’s cage, and Pete watched them go. He looked at the other penguins and studied their white breast feathers and sleek black coats. No one had ever laughed before at the way he looked.
We do look silly, he decided. Walking away from the fence, Pete sat in the shadows where no one could see him. He watched the other penguins strut past the visitors. I’ll never act like that again, he thought.
Pete wanted to hide, but even in the shade, his white breast feathers glistened. Finally he waddled to the edge of a pool where there was lots of gooey brown mud. He sat in the mud and used his short wings to splash it all over his white feathers.
“What are you doing, Pete?”
Pete looked up at his friend Paul. “I’m covering myself with mud.”
“Why?”
“Because we look like silly little old men in suits.”
Paul shook his head. “You look awful,” he said and walked away.
But no one will laugh at me now, Pete thought.
Every day, while the other penguins groomed their feathers, Pete covered himself with a new layer of mud. No one laughed at him, but Pete didn’t feel better. In fact, he felt awful. When visitors came, he huddled in a corner.
“Come on, Pete,” Paul called. “Let’s play water tag.”
Pete just shook his head, and soon even Paul left him alone.
One morning, as Pete huddled behind a rock, he heard someone say, “Look at that bird over there. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s all dirty.”
“He doesn’t even look like a penguin.”
“I guess he doesn’t like himself very much.”
The voices faded away, and Pete thought for a long time about what they’d said.
That afternoon Pete went to the pond and slid down the bank into the cool water. He splashed and swam and splashed some more until all the mud was gone. Then he climbed onto a rock and groomed himself.
“You look great,” Paul said as he passed the rock. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll look silly?”
Pete put one more feather in place, then looked at his friend and said, “I discovered that it’s not what other people think of me that makes me feel good. It’s what I think of myself.”

During the pandemic I have met with youth from all over the world in many devotionals, large and small, through broadcasts and social media, and we have discussed their questions.

Youth often ask me what I believe and why I believe.

I remember visiting virtually with one young woman in her home. I asked if it was the first time an Apostle had been in her home. She quickly smiled and responded, “Yes.” Her question for me was good: “What are the most important things I should know?”

I answered with the things of my soul, the things that prepare me to hear promptings, that lift my sights beyond the ways of the world, that give purpose to my work in the gospel and to my very life.

We have a prophet of God on the earth today! Never discount what that means for you. Remember the young woman I mentioned at the beginning. She wanted to know what things matter most. “Follow the living prophet,” I said then and I emphasize again today.

Stock Broker Opportunity
Back to my story, the trials continued. In 1989, before leaving my friends in Idaho, I interviewed for stockbroker position with a certain Mr. Sebel, a manager in the Beverly Hills Division of the then prestigious investment banking firm, Drexel, Burnham and Lambert. Mr. Sebel was handling investments for the Church, but was looking for a young Mormon who could service and expand their LDS clientele. I flew to L.A., drove to Beverly Hills, and had a fantastic interview. Mr. Sebel all but said that I would be hired. He explained that the firm would put me and my family up on Wall Street for a year of training, and then we would return and I would work in the Beverly Hills office. He promised to call me within two weeks to confirm the plan. We began preparing mentally and emotionally for a move to the Big Apple. This was exciting stuff! The call came in two weeks, but not with the news we anticipated. Mr. Sebel explained that there was “internal restructuring” at the firm and that he didn’t know how long it would be before the dust settled, but that he would call me as soon as it did. Another blow. We were down again.

I tried to remain hopeful about the stockbroker prospect, but in the meantime, through other contacts, I moved our family to Provo, Utah and started writing loans as an independent contractor for a mortgage broker. I learned a lot from that experience. I could not believe the amount of paperwork involved in writing and closing a real estate loan. Each form in that packet was necessary to satisfy some law. Unfortunately, high interest rates hampered new loan applications, which made it difficult to survive on that meager income. Our savings continued to dwindle as my concern about caring for my little family intensified.

Six weeks following my interview with Mr. Sebel, while watching the news one evening, it was reported that the firm Drexel, Burnham and Lambert had been involved in a massive scandal that included insider trading, stock manipulation and fraud, among other things. Arrests and indictments were made and the firm eventually ended in bankruptcy. Mike Milken, the principal perpetrator, went to prison. Hollywood even made a movie about this scandal. It was called “Wall Street.” The stockbroker prospect disintegrated, and my discouragement was turning into desperation.