Gospel Story Finder

I first learned the importance of the First Presidency as a boy growing up in western Canada. When I would go to Grandma and Grandpa Walker’s home, I was greeted in the entry by a framed photo of the First Presidency of the Church. I remember it well. It seemed that they stood as sentinels, greeting all who entered.
The beautiful color photo was of President George Albert Smith, with his counselors J. Reuben Clark Jr. and David O. McKay. The photo showed them standing together by a large world globe. I loved the picture. They were such handsome and dignified men; I knew them as the prophet of God and his counselors.
That picture hanging in the front foyer of my grandparents’ home had a powerful influence on me. I lived in the small prairie town of Raymond, where my grandparents lived. I could walk to their home, so I visited often. I remember frequently standing quietly alone in the foyer, reverently looking at that picture of the First Presidency. I remember thinking about why my grandparents thought it was so important to honor the First Presidency and have that picture prominently displayed in their home. All who entered would see it. Perhaps most importantly, for their children and grandchildren it was a constant reminder of what was deeply important in the hearts and lives of Grandma and Grandpa.
Years later I concluded that displaying the picture of the First Presidency was equivalent to Joshua’s beautiful expression: “Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Joshua 24:15).
All who entered the home of James and Fannye Walker knew that written upon their hearts were the words “As for us and our house, we will serve the Lord.” As their grandson, I knew it, and I have never forgotten it.

The Young Women of the Presto Ward, Firth Idaho Stake, found a great way to spend their free time. They organized a special project to get to know the older members of their ward.
The girls were paired up and assigned to visit two homes where older members reside, and to help the people prepare their oral histories. Appointments were made, special treats baked, and tape recorders warmed up. After the visits were made, the tapes containing the oral histories were presented to the persons interviewed. The information from the tapes was summarized for compiling into one general history.
In searching for an inventive way to present this fund of information to other members of the ward, the girls decided to write a newspaper. The paper was prepared with articles on sports, weather, schools, and entertainment from the lives of those they had interviewed. Bits and pieces of all the elderly ward members’ histories were included. As a climax to the project, the girls hosted their new friends at a special dinner.

Dad was the bishop of our ward for most of my youth. One night when I was ten or eleven years old, he took me with him to visit some ward members. (He often took one of his children along with him so that he could spend more time with us.) As we visited a young lady that night, a big black car drove up in front of her house. In the car was David O. McKay, the President of the Church. I remember thinking that he was very impressive looking. In the course of the short visit, he and Dad gave a blessing to the young girl.
After the blessing, President McKay went out on the front porch and talked to me. He commented on how nice it was that I could be with my dad. He talked about the times he had been with his father. On one of those occasions, he said, they had come to Salt Lake City to general conference. He was just a young boy at the time. He was introduced to John Taylor, who was then President of the Church.
During their conversation, President Taylor showed him the scars on his arms from wounds he had suffered in Carthage Jail with the Prophet Joseph Smith on the day of the martyrdom. All his life President McKay had recalled talking firsthand with someone who had been in the presence of the Prophet Joseph. He said that since I was in his presence and he had been in the presence of someone who had known the Prophet, I, too, had a connection to Joseph Smith.
I thought about that experience when we discussed the sixth article of faith in Primary: “We believe in the same organization that existed in the Primitive Church, namely, apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers, evangelists, and so forth.” I’ve always related to that article of faith in a special way.
President McKay was the prophet of my boyhood. I can remember how sad I felt when he passed away. It was a personal loss for me. Even though I was nearly thirty years old, I still remembered vividly the first time I met a prophet.

Eliza R. Snow, who had heard of the Prophet and some very ugly things in that ­connection, happened to be at home one day when the Prophet called and visited with her family. “In the winter of 1830 and ’31, Joseph Smith called at my father’s,” she wrote of this visit, “and as he sat warming himself, I scrutinized his face as closely as I could without attracting his attention, and decided that his was an honest face.”43 Later, after joining the Church, she was often in his home as a kind of babysitter and help for a time in Kirtland. She first admired him in his public ministry, saw him as a prophet, but not until she saw him in his own home, on his knees in prayer, and in his relationship with his children did her whole heart go out to him in admiration.44 He was, she said, as humble as a little child.45

September of last year, I returned home to New Zealand to attend the funeral of a remarkable man, his name is Junior Wineera. In March, 1944 Junior was the youngest of thirteen children born to Raha and Leah Wineera. His parents noticed very early in his development that his reflexes were slow and he did not respond to movement. Baby Junior was taken to an eye specialist who confirmed their fears, he had been born blind. Raha was not active in the church and Leah belonged to the Anglican faith. In 1945 President Matthew Cowley of the New Zealand Mission visited the Porirua Branch. Upon hearing that President Cowley was attending the church services, Raha took his 9 month baby to the meeting that Sunday. He said, "Brother Cowley, our baby hasn't been blessed yet; we'd like you to bless him." President Cowley said, "Why have you waited so Long?" Raha responded, "Oh, we just didn't get around to it." President Cowley said, "All right, what's his name?" Raha gave him the name and just as President Cowley was to start the blessing Raha said, "By the way, give him his vision when you give him a name, he was born blind." After the initial shock President Cowley said to himself, "Why not, I had faith in that father's faith." A few years later, when visiting the area, President Cowley asked the Branch President about the status of Junior. He remarked, "Brother Cowley, the worst thing you ever did was to bless that child to receive his vision, he's the meanest kid in the neighborhood, always getting into mischief."
I had the privilege of growing up in the neighborhood with Junior, he may at one time been the meanest kid, but he was without guile. Every Sunday morning his mother Leah, who remained true to her Anglican faith, laid out a clean, ironed white shirt in preparation for Junior to attend his Sunday morning Priesthood meeting. As the only active member of five brothers, he grew up honoring his Priesthood and fulfilling his duties. When he was a Priest he would often repeat the Sacrament prayer several times, he slowly articulated the words until he eventually got them right. He was not conscious of how long it took and neither were we. Junior never received his driver's license and would often be seen walking to Titahi Bay or Porirua city, four mile hikes. He just enjoyed walking and meeting and talking with people, often addressing them with this salutation, "How might you be today, Sir." He would have enjoyed the Kahuku Bike path. I am not sure how the locals would have responded to his salutation. He loved his Priesthood and excursions to the Temple. He had embraced the simplicity of his father's faith with good works. Junior knew he had received a special blessing but to him being a worthy member of the church was special.

When I was 15 years old, my beloved older brother, Joe, was 20—the age of eligibility then to serve a mission. In the United States, because of the Korean conflict, very few were allowed to serve. Only one could be called from each ward per year. It was a surprise when our bishop asked Joe to explore this possibility with our father. Joe had been preparing applications for medical school. Our father, who was not active in the Church, had made financial preparations to help him and was not in favor of Joe going on a mission. Dad suggested that Joe could do more good by going to medical school. This was a huge issue in our family.
In a remarkable discussion with my wise and exemplary older brother, we concluded that his decision on whether to serve a mission and delay his education depended on three questions: (1) Is Jesus Christ divine? (2) Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? and (3) Is Joseph Smith the Prophet of the Restoration? If the answer to these questions was yes, it was clear that Joe could do more good taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the world than becoming a doctor at an earlier date.
That night I prayed fervently and with real intent. The Spirit, in an undeniably powerful way, confirmed to me that the answer to all three of these questions was yes. This was a seminal event for me. I realized that every decision I would make for the rest of my life would be influenced by these truths. I also knew that I would serve a mission if given the opportunity. Over a lifetime of service and spiritual experiences, I have come to understand that true conversion is the result of the conscious acceptance of the will of God and that we can be guided in our actions by the Holy Ghost.
I already had a testimony of the divinity of Jesus Christ as Savior of the world. That night I received a spiritual testimony of the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith.

Elder Michael Hayes of the Walsall Ward spends time serving with the Walsall Society for the Blind and the Billion Graves Project. In sharing his thoughts about the blessing of service, Elder Hayes said, “Unfortunately, due to health challenges, I couldn’t serve a teaching mission. I remember sitting at home upset that I wouldn’t be able to serve the Lord. Then one day, the bishop spoke with me about a new mission opportunity. I will never forget the feeling I had when he told me that I could serve for two years as a service missionary. I didn’t know what a service mission was until he spoke about it, but what I did know is that I felt the Spirit so strongly, without hesitation I said, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I knew this is what I had to do. I am nervous, but I know that with the help of my Heavenly Father, I can do anything.”

I remember the terrifying words of my labor nurse: “I think he has some anomalies.” At the same time, the population in the delivery room escalated to allow for the resuscitation of my severely compromised newborn.
I had lived similar scenes many times before, but from the other side, as a nurse. I was supposed to be the one reviving the newborn. Now I was the mom reaching through an incubator door to touch the hand of my son, while a transport team waited to take him to another hospital.
The next morning I received a telephone call from the newborn intensive care unit (NICU), where my husband, Andrew, sat surrounded by doctors, as they explained the surgery Timothy would immediately require to remove giant abdominal tumors.
I clung to the hope that surgery would cure our child and that he would lead a normal, happy life. I envisioned him as a chubby toddler with a cute scar, a reminder of the short-lived scare he gave his parents.
Three weeks later in that same hospital conference room, a neurologist attempted to explain the brain malformation that would leave our child with significant cognitive delay, speech difficulty, and eventually seizures.
A few days after that, in the same room, the neonatologist said, “I can’t conceive that Timothy will go home without a feeding tube.” Our baby was an emaciated three pounds (1.4 kg) less than at birth, anemic, and virtually unresponsive to stimulation. When offered a bottle, his suck was weak at best, and he choked on its contents.
Expectations for our baby seemed reduced to nothing. My world was crashing down on me. I questioned the Lord’s promise that He will never allow a trial that is beyond one’s capacity to bear. I felt this burden was crushing me physically, mentally, and spiritually. During long daily hours at the hospital, I longed to be with my two older children and to resume our peaceful life. When I was at home, I obsessed over the welfare of my baby and, honestly, what I thought were our newly destroyed lives.
At my lowest point I pleaded with the Lord, letting Him know all the wonderful ways I would serve Him if He would just take Timothy back, let me mourn his loss, and allow me to get on with my life. Anything else was clearly more than I could handle.
While all of this was going on, my own personal miracle was beginning. Many members of our ward, along with several family members and friends, were fasting and praying for our family. One Sunday morning when I woke up, I had a strong impression that something great was going to happen that day as a result of all the fasting and prayers. I was hoping, of course, that Timothy would suddenly become alert and miraculously begin to feed. When I arrived in the NICU, Timothy was as nonresponsive as ever, and he still had no interest in bottle-feeding. Naturally, I was disappointed, but as I held him, an intense feeling came over me that he was going to be OK. I didn’t know what “OK” meant, but I had no doubt the Lord was in charge and was aware of our family.
A few weeks later my mother and I stopped by the hospital. In that quiet, dimly lit room, my mother held my weak little baby to her chest and rocked him as she sang the Christmas lullaby:
Oh, hush thee, my baby; a story I’ll tell,
How little Lord Jesus on earth came to dwell;
How in a far country, ’way over the sea,
Was born a wee baby, my dear one, like thee.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Sleep, little baby; have nothing to fear.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Jesus will care for his little one here.1
I knew peace would come through my Savior, who came to this earth to bring peace and eternal happiness for each of us. Surely He would care for this dear little one and lift those of us who were chosen to care for him.
A few weeks later Timothy was transferred to the special-care nursery where I currently work. There he miraculously learned how to eat. And I again experienced an incredible feeling that he would be OK. And although he has improved in so many ways, I still don’t know exactly what that means. But I have had such a comforting presence with me since that time. And whenever I find something that I probably should worry about, that feeling washes over me, and the message is the same: “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be OK. Just enjoy him.”
This Christmas season my thoughts turn to the beautiful gifts the Savior has given us. In so many ways He allows us to have peace here on earth. One of the most wonderful gifts of peace is the opportunity to prayerfully do all we can and then give our sorrows to Him.
By putting our trust in the Lord, we can give our worries to Him, and He in turn will lift us, giving special gifts to sustain us—often through other people. For me these gifts came in the form of babysitters for my two older children, meals from ward members, wonderful nurses and doctors, and loving support from family and friends. The most powerful gift, however, has been the peace granted by Heavenly Father as His Son has carried my sorrows and worries. Because of Him, I am free to love and enjoy baby Timothy and to celebrate all of the people and blessings that have been placed in my path because of his special life.

In the four months after my mother died, I tried to cope with the loss as best I could, but I often felt alone and helpless. Our extended family all lived out of state and had already done a lot anyway. With obligations at school and home and other activities, I felt overwhelmed. My life had been turned upside down.
While in this preoccupied state of mind, I received a call from my Beehive adviser. She asked if the Beehives could come and clean our house. I quickly agreed, not needing to look around to know that help was needed.
At seven the next evening, my smiling classmates and Beehive leaders knocked on the door. What a sight! They were armed with cleanser, rags, brooms, brownies, music, and happy attitudes. We got to work, and for that moment all of my problems were forgotten.
A little later, our Young Women president appeared behind me and asked if we had any gardening clippers. Where had she come from? Then I took a step outside. Priests were mowing the front lawn while the Laurels were fixing up the bushes and flowers. It was as if I had entered a dream world where all I needed to do was open a door and people were there to do whatever was needed.
Several Laurels came up and hugged me. I guess I hadn’t been dreaming after all. I could clearly see the love of Christ radiating in everyone that night, and I realized how precious the gospel was to me. I didn’t just belong to a ward but to a much larger family who could be there when I needed them.
I realized the goodness of Church members who were so willing to give their time to serve others. I felt fortunate to be friends with such youth. Allowing me to partake of their kindness was the greatest gift they could have given me. It made me think of the scripture in Matthew 7:20, “Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.” [Matt. 7:20]
In the next months my family received many more acts of kindness from neighbors and ward members, but I’ve never forgotten that one evening when, instead of doing something more fun, the young men and women did extra chores out of the goodness of their hearts.

I have come to know that the Lord can, and will, work through us to bring about His purposes and to answer prayers. A young patient I was caring for in a pediatric intensive care unit was critically ill. As his condition deteriorated, it became apparent that he needed to be rushed to surgery. It took a team of doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists to sustain his life during transport. As we approached the door to leave the ICU, the surgeon asked if this child had been given a priesthood blessing. His parents, who were standing nearby, answered through their tears that they had wanted to, but everyone was in such a hurry, they did not dare ask. The doctor then explained that this was going to be an extremely complicated surgery. He said he needed to have his hands and mind guided to know what needed to be done to save this young life. The child’s father and a respiratory therapist gave a beautiful blessing for strength and healing. This sweet boy survived the complicated surgery and recovered to go home with his parents. Situations like this happen on a regular basis in hospitals around the world. What made this story memorable to me was this surgeon, who requested the priesthood blessing, was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was not even a religious man. But his experiences had shown him that an unknown power had influenced him in the care of patients when priesthood blessings had been given. This confirmed to me that the Lord can, and will, work through us to bring about His will.

Representing The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Dr. Kalilimoku Hunt, American Samoa’s Church communication director, presented digital copies of family history records to Governor Lemanu Peleti Mauga on 5 April.
The governor received with gratitude the records on behalf of the people of American Samoa. He also thanked the Church for helping the territory in many ways?in emergency situations, service projects, and donations to institutions such as LBJ Medical Center, Fatu-o-aiga, ASDOE schools, and emergency preparedness.
Also at the meeting was Mr. James Himphill, an esteemed American Samoan archivist and territorial historian who described the significance of preserving these invaluable records.
“These records date from 1900–1974 and were copied to microfilm many years ago,” he said. “The films were damaged and could only be saved by digitization to a computer format. They could have been permanently lost were it not for this work by the Church.”
Michael Higgins, the area manager for the Church’s FamilySearch program in the Pacific, led the team that did the record digitization. “We see these digital images as being much more than data. We see them as a crucial part of American Samoa’s history and culture. For this reason, we are especially grateful for the opportunity to be of service in this way,” he said.

Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.

Sulueti Kama serves as the secretary for the president of the Fiji Suva Mission and has been many things—institute teacher, Church communication director, Zumba enthusiast . . . but never a gardener.
With more time on her hands during the COVID-19 shutdown, she grew green thumbs.
In May 2020, she and her husband drove from Suva to Nadi to check on friends who had lost their jobs. Their friends had large farms where they grew their own food. Whilst visiting a local nursery together, Sulueti saw rows of seedings. She was hooked. Her interest with gardening had begun.
Trays of seedlings, tomatoes, cabbages, and eggplants went home with her. She decided to plant them in pots and now has 84 pots full of edibles, including cucumbers, French beans, radishes, and herbs such as cilantro, dill, oregano, and chilies.
She learned about the best soil for planting, researched organic pesticides and traded stories with friends who are farmers. Her husband built her a greenhouse.
“It’s the best thing that ever happened to us, we found a hobby and a skill we never had before and got hooked on it,” Sulu stated.
Sulu’s Facebook posts often include photos of her plants and notations including these: “After an hour of Zumba at 5 a.m. I couldn’t wait to get home to check on my plants and pot some more. Was so excited to see my herbs—oregano and dill sprouting along with cucumbers . . . had just planted the seeds on Saturday.”
“I look forward to going home each day to see my plants and how much they’ve grown even though I’d just been working with them in the mornings.”
What will they do with all the vegetables at harvest time? Sulu knows. “It’s only my husband and me now and we will produce more than we need, so we let the bishop know. We pray our garden will turn out well so he can donate the food to people who need it.”

An experience Elder Thomas S. Monson had in the German Democratic Republic in 1968 illustrates. It was his first visit, and no diplomatic relations had been established. No one in the government yet understood the Church’s mission or trusted its integrity.
Elder Monson traveled to Görlitz to meet with the Saints there. He came with a heavy heart, knowing the members did not have the blessings that come with being part of a stake—no patriarch, no wards offering the full program of the Church, and no access to a temple. Yet they filled the hall with their faith in the Lord. As Elder Monson stood to address the congregation, the Spirit prompted him to make them a promise: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.”
That evening in his hotel room, the full impact of his words hit him. He knelt and pleaded with the Lord to honor the promise he had been moved to give. As he prayed, there came to his mind the words of the psalm, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10).7
Today, just 20 years later, Germany is united under a democratic government, the nation has two temples, and the Saints are organized into 14 stakes.

Eight-year-old Martin Wang raced upstairs to the third floor of his apartment building. He pressed the doorbell and waited impatiently.
“Ni hao (How are you)?” his mother greeted him cheerfully when she opened the door.
Martin didn’t answer. His mother continued talking in Mandarin, asking him what he had done in school that day and if he wanted sweet rice in bamboo leaves for a snack.
“No,” answered Martin in English, “I want a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, like all the other kids have.”
“Haole (All right),” said his mother, still talking in Mandarin. “But sweet rice tastes much better.”
“I don’t care,” said Martin. “I want what all the other kids have.”
That evening at supper, as Martin’s father and mother talked about getting ready for the Chinese New Year, which would begin in a few days, Martin burst out angrily, “Speak English!”
“Martin,” said his father. “Why are you so upset?”
“I want you to speak English like everyone else,” said Martin. “And I don’t want to go to the New Year’s festival anymore. I’m tired of being different.” Martin threw down his napkin and ran to his room, crying.
Martin’s mother followed him. “Did something happen in school today?” she asked, sitting next to Martin on his bed.
“Some of the kids said I have funny eyes,” Martin sobbed.
“They’re not funny,” said his mother. “They’re just different from your classmates’. Chinese people have almond-shaped eyes. Yours are especially handsome because you have an extra fold on each eyelid.”
“I don’t care,” said Martin. “I want to be just like everyone else.”
“No one is just like everyone else,” his mother told him. “Right now it seems hard, but someday you’ll be glad for your Chinese heritage.”
The next day at school Martin’s teacher asked him if his mother could come in and tell the class about the Chinese New Year. Martin blushed with embarrassment. He was afraid that the other kids would tease him even more. But Martin did ask his mother, and she said that she would be happy to talk to his class.
A few days later, when Martin woke up, he groaned, remembering that his mother was to accompany him to school. At breakfast he said, “I have a stomachache.”
“I’m sorry, Martin,” said his mother. “I’ll tell you what; if you still don’t feel well after I’ve told your class about the Chinese New Year, you can come home with me.”
Martin tried to think of another excuse to stay home, but his mother whisked him out the door and into the car before he could think of one.
In his classroom Martin sat with his head down, staring at the floor. He thought that the other children would make fun of his mother’s broken English. Instead, the children watched with great interest as she held up a bright red sheet of paper with gold characters painted on it and explained that the characters meant “Happy New Year.”
Then she showed the children how Chinese written characters are sometimes like pictures. She wrote: (mù), which means “tree.” Then she wrote (lin), which means “forest.” Then she held up some small red envelopes covered with gold characters.
“What do you think these are for?” she asked.
One of the children raised his hand and guessed that they were for sending letters.
“No,” said Martin’s mother with a smile, “but that’s a good guess. These are special envelopes that we put money into and give to the children as New Year’s presents—right Martin?”
Martin nodded his head reluctantly.
Out of a large plastic bag, his mother pulled a scary-looking dragon head with a long colorful sheet attached to it. The children all oohed and aahed.
Martin looked around in surprise. Everyone seemed excited and genuinely interested. And no one, he realized, had snickered at anything that his mom had said.
“This is a Chinese dragon,” said his mother. “We use it for the dragon dance during the New Year’s celebration. The person chosen for the dragon’s head has to practice for many months. If you would like me to, I will show you a little of the dance. Who would like to be part of the dragon today?”
All the children—even Billy, who had teased Martin about his eyes—eagerly waved their hands and begged to be part of the dragon.
After all the children had a chance to try the dragon dance, Martin’s mother said that she had one more thing to show them. “You must be very careful with these,” she continued. “Adults are the ones that usually light them for our celebrations.” From a sack she pulled a long string with small rolls of red paper attached to it.
“Firecrackers!” yelled one of the boys.
Everyone in the class pushed to the front of the room to have a closer look.
“Boy, you guys are lucky!” Billy told Martin. “You get to set off firecrackers for New Year’s.”
Martin looked at him and smiled. Maybe being Chinese wasn’t so bad after all.
When everyone had sat down, Martin’s mother asked him in Mandarin if his stomach still hurt. Without thinking, he answered her in Mandarin.
“You mean that you can speak Chinese, too?” asked Billy.
Martin nodded.
“Wow!” Billy exclaimed. “Maybe you can teach me some?”
Later, as they lined up together for recess, Martin smiled. “Pengyou,“ he said to Billy as they ran across the blacktop. “That means ‘friend.’”

Just to illustrate this, one day when President Cowley and I were traveling, we arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man. He was in every way a pure patriarch. He had never been ordained a patriarch—he just was one, and he presided over his large family as a true father and leader. President Cowley and Brother Meha spent all afternoon sitting on the porch just talking about the Church and other interesting things. I listened to them part of the time and then visited with the kids and others who lived in this little area near Brother Meha’s home. Incidentally, there were two or three other homes in this little Maori village, but I discovered that most of the people living there belonged to his family. They were his children and his grandchildren.

When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and, in the Maori language, shouted out to all of his large family, “Haere Mai Ki Te Kai.” Then he said, “Haere Mai Ki Te Karakia.” This simply meant “Come on home for supper” and “Come on home for prayer.” Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room. This room had very little furniture in it, and everybody gathered in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle and on his left was President Cowley. I was next to the president. On Brother Meha’s right was a little child about eight years of age. All around the rest of the circle were the other children with some adults in between.

Finally Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him gave a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle with each person quoting a different passage of scripture. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected. I immediately began to think of a scripture that I could quote when my turn came.

I had been in the mission field just a little over a year and had mastered two wonderful passages of scripture. I mentally polished up my first scripture and had no sooner silently rehearsed it than one of the young people gave that exact scripture. This, of course, slowed me down for a minute, but I thought I was okay because I still had one in reserve. I worked a little on it, only to hear someone directly across from me quote it. I then became panicky as I realized I could not think of another scripture I could give. My turn was coming closer and closer, and I felt tension building up within me. My mind went totally blank.

In my moment of greatest concern, President Cowley nudged me with his elbow and, out of the side of his mouth, said, “Quick—tell me a scripture. I can’t think of a single one to say.” I then realized that the two of us were in the same desperate situation. At that moment it was my turn. I bravely said the first article of faith. President Cowley followed by quoting the second article of faith, and then Brother Meha prayed. I think that night he prayed for the mission president and the missionaries a little more than usual. When the prayer was finished, a little boy about eight years of age came over to us and said, “I guess you two guys don’t know that the Articles of Faith are not allowed in our scripture study.”

Now, brothers and sisters, that was an excellent example to me of family prayer and how children can be taught the scriptures. If we would just gather together and have prayer, it would probably be the finest teaching experience that a mother and father could give to their children.

Mikel signed his name at the bottom of a clipboard titled “Junior Runners.” A man handed him a bright red number, and Mikel ran back to where his mom, dad, sister, and baby brother sat in the bleachers.
“Ready?” Dad asked.
Mikel pinned the number on his shirt. “I think so.” He had signed up to run in his town’s mile-long race. His family had trained together for weeks, but he still couldn’t believe how far a mile really was!
“I’m ready too!” his sister, Isabella, said. She had a bright yellow number on her shirt. Since she was only in kindergarten, she would run in the half-mile race.
“Junior runners to the track!” the announcer called over the speakers. Mikel felt his stomach do a flip-flop. Dad patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
Mikel smiled back, then turned and headed toward the track. It was time to run.
When the buzzer sounded, Mikel ran just like he had practiced. The mile was long, but Mikel knew he could do it. Even when his shoe fell off during the second lap, he put it back on and finished the race as fast as he could.
As Mikel crossed the finish line, Dad gave him a big hug. “Great job! I bet you’re ready to rest!”
Mikel only nodded, too busy gulping down air to answer. He had a cramp in his side, and he was hot and sweaty.
“Pee-wee runners to the track!” the announcer called.
Isabella bounced up and down in excitement. “My turn!” She jogged to her place at the starting line and waved at Mikel. “I’m going to run just like you!”
Mikel gave a tired wave back. He walked back to the bleachers with Dad.
The race started, and Isabella began her first lap around the track. Mikel settled down on the bleachers. It was nice to sit. His legs felt like rubbery spaghetti noodles.
Isabella was on the opposite end of the track now. They couldn’t see her very well in the crowd of other runners.
As she finished the first loop, Mikel squinted to see her. “Is she okay?”
Isabella was stumbling slowly down the track. It looked like something was wrong.
Dad stood up from his seat. “What happened?” He called to Isabella as she got closer.
The rest of the runners were far ahead. Isabella stopped running. “I fell down on the other side of the track, and I got scared!” she said as she started to sob.
Dad ran out on the track. “Come on, Isabella! We can do it!” Taking her hand, he started running down the track with her.
As Mikel watched them, he felt his noodley legs get stronger. Hopping off his seat, he ran onto the track and took Isabella by the other hand. “Yeah! We can do it together!”
Isabella looked up at Mikel. She wiped the tears away from her cheeks and smiled. Dad let go of Isabella’s hand, and Mikel continued running down the track with her. They were already catching up with the other runners.
Mikel’s legs were burning, and he was out of breath. But he was running—running more than he had ever run before!
Mikel looked over at Isabella as he continued to run. She was grinning from ear to ear.
He smiled and tightened his grip on his sister’s hand. The race was getting easier with every step.

Growing up, I was a learn-by-doing kind of kid. Among other family chores was the twice-daily milking of our small herd of Jersey cows. We milked by hand, and, as I was the baby of the family and too small to milk, my assignment was to herd the cows in and out of the barn and then clean the milk-barn floors at the end of each milking session. It seemed as if those cows would save up all night so that they could relieve themselves on my shiny, clean floor.

Being an observant child, I noticed that before they made their green deposits, they always lifted their tails. That signal gave me the best idea. I would stand by with my large aluminum scoop shovel, and when the tail went up, the scoop went under, and I caught the prize before it had a chance to splatter all over the milk-barn floor.

My dad, seemingly amused and unimpressed by my creativity, said, “Son, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I thought to myself, “Yeah, sure, but you don’t have to clean up this mess every day.”

So I chose to ignore him, and he allowed it. A couple of days later, after nearly total and very satisfying success, the tail went up and the scoop went under and midway through the event the cow gave a great cough. Now, at my age and stature, I had a birds-eye view of this fine part of the cow’s anatomy, and that cough sent a spray of pasty, green liquid that covered me from head to toe. I stood there mortified.

My dad came over laughing and wiped the outline of first one eye and then the other and simply said, “I told you not to do that.”

It was my first lesson of “lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). It was a lesson I would have liked to learn through obedience and trust.

Frances couldn’t sleep. She felt like jumping up and down with excitement, but she forced herself to lie still so she wouldn’t wake her three younger brothers on the floor beside her.
She pinched herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Tomorrow I’m really going with Father to Salt Lake City for the temple dedication. This will be my happiest birthday ever!” she thought.
It seemed only minutes had passed when Father nudged her and whispered, “Wake up, Frances. It’s nearly sunup.”
She quickly slid into her dress and smoothed her hair. Clutching the small bundle containing her other dress, she hurried to the wagon.
Frances had never been away from home. She wanted to see everything. But by mid-morning, she realized that red soil, gray sagebrush, and dark cedar trees were the only sights for miles around. “I wish we could go faster,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the temple. Perhaps we’ll even see the prophet!”
“Singing will make the journey go faster,” Father suggested. He began singing his favorite hymn, “The Spirit of God.”* After he finished singing, Father said, “That song was sung at the Kirtland Temple dedication. I expect it will be sung in many more temples of the Lord.”
Frances and her father began to sing in harmony. The hymns “Now Let Us Rejoice” and “Redeemer of Israel”** echoed through the nearby hills. Frances smiled. “I’ve never been so happy,” she thought.
After Father stopped the team for the night and the two of them had eaten, Father said, “It’s time for scripture study. Will you read from Isaiah, Frances?”
She opened Father’s well-worn Bible to the page they had read the night before and began reading.
After scripture study, Frances lay on the corn-husk tick (mattress) in the wagon and quickly fell asleep.
April 6, 1893, dawned cold and windy. Frances awoke early. She could hardly contain her excitement! “Today we will finally see the temple!” she thought. “I couldn’t receive a better birthday present.”
The scenery changed as they traveled north. The mountains were higher and more rugged. The air was cooler with cloudy skies, threatening to rain.
When they arrived in Salt Lake City, many wagons and buggies bumped along the busy, dusty road toward the temple. “It looks like everyone in the Church is going to the dedication with us,” Frances exclaimed.
Rounding a curve, she gasped. In the distance a huge granite building with six majestic spires rose in splendor. Standing high on one spire was a golden statue of the angel Moroni.
Father stopped the wagon. Tears filled Frances’s eyes as she hugged Father’s arm. “The temple is even more beautiful than I had imagined,” she whispered.
Father’s eyes were moist, too. “It’s taken forty years of sacrifice and hard labor to build this temple, but it is a small price to pay to finally receive the blessings the Lord has in store for us in His house.”
To Frances’s surprise, Father drew a tiny box from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “I want you to always remember this day,” he said. Opening the box, he removed a gold locket and fastened its delicate chain around her neck.
Tears of joy flowed down her cheeks. “Father, I love you so! I’ll always treasure this locket. It will help me remember the things you’ve taught me.”
“Always remember the importance of the Lord’s house,” Father said. “The desire of my heart is for all of my children to be sealed in the temple. I’m depending on you to set the example and teach your brothers and baby sister.”
“I will, Father,” Frances promised.
Father jerked the reins, and the horses moved forward. Outside the temple a large crowd was assembling. Father parked the wagon a short distance from the temple, secured the horses, then helped Frances climb out of the wagon.
As Frances studied each detail of the great temple, she remembered the words she had read in Isaiah the night before:
“Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer: their … sacrifices shall be accepted upon mine altar; for mine house shall be called an house of prayer for all people” (Isa. 56:7).
She looked at the golden angel, high against the ash-gray sky. Walking reverently beside her father, she whispered, “I’ve never felt this close to the Lord. I know that this is His house.” She reached for her father’s hand. A feeling of joy and peace filled her heart as they walked toward the temple doors.

Some years ago my business partner and I needed to terminate an employee. After some discussions we reached a settlement to compensate him for his past services. I felt the settlement was more than fair, but, nonetheless, there were some strained relationships as a result of the negotiations. That night I felt a gloom come over me. I tried to dispel it by reasoning within myself that I had been fair, but the feeling would not leave. Then this impression came: “It’s not enough to be fair; you must also strive to be Christlike.” Adherence to the highest moral code is a hallmark of a man or a woman of integrity.