Gospel Story Finder

Eldon was the first of eight children born to Nathan William Tanner and Sara Edna Brown Tanner, and growing up on a pioneer dry farm, he grew up fast. He learned to ride almost before he could walk, and by the age of 12 he was driving a four-horse team 7 1/2 miles to the grain elevators. There was no plumbing, electricity, or telephone. The work was hard and the winters harsh, but young Eldon thrived on it. He decided on his own that his father would never have to wake him up in the morning, even on the days when they were to start working at three or four A.M. Once in his early teens the whole family was stricken with smallpox, and he nursed them, going without sleep for three days and two nights. His father was impressed by the young man’s steadfastness and told him privately that one day he would be an Apostle. Eldon never repeated this to anyone until it had become a fact, but it filled him with joy that the best man he knew thought him worthy of that great calling.

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

Tim Burton trudged slowly alongside the dusty covered wagon. The company had been on the trail only two hours, but his legs were sore already.
Tim knew the others must be tired too. There was little of the laughter and high spirits Tim had known during the first weeks on the trail when everything was new and everyone was eager. Now there was just the constant push westward.
Tim was surprised by the sudden stop of the wagon and the mutter of dismay from Grandpa. He turned to see the wagon tipped toward its right side.
Grandpa pulled off his hat and ran a calloused hand through his thick white hair as a crowd quickly began to gather around the wagon.
“Hit a rock and something must have broken,” the old man explained. “The rest of you had best go on.”
“Go on?” someone echoed. “But you and the boy—”
The words broke off as Grandpa said quickly, “I thought maybe one of you might take Timothy.”
Tim was too startled to do more than stare at his grandfather in disbelief, but at last he found his voice. “I wouldn’t think of going on without you. Why, we haven’t been separated since Pa and Ma died. No, Grandpa! If you stay, I stay—same as always.”
Grandpa smiled proudly and turned to the others. “Timothy’s near thirteen now, and he’s a great help. We’ll fix the wagon and catch up in a few hours.”
Some of the company protested, but Grandpa stood firm. He looked around thoughtfully. “My oxteam is in better condition than most of the others. We’ll catch up before long.”
Tim and his grandfather watched the company move up the slope amid the squeal and creak of dried-out wooden wagons and worn leather. There was an empty feeling inside Tim, and he didn’t move until he felt the old man place a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Come along, Timothy. There’s work to be done.”
Tim swallowed hard. “Are you sure we’ll be all right, Grandpa? Do you really think we can catch up with the train soon?”
Grandpa’s expression was grave. “We have a good chance if we stop looking and get working.” He moved toward the wagon, and after a moment Tim turned to follow.
“You see to the oxteam,” Grandpa instructed. “Move them to new grazing now and again. And keep a sharp lookout, lad.”
Restlessly Tim moved from one spot to another around their lonely little wagon. The morning seemed to stretch out endlessly. It was far past noon before the old man straightened. “Best we take time for a quick bite to eat,” he announced.
Grandpa ate hurriedly and turned back to his work.
“I wish I could help,” Tim said.
“You are helping,” the old man assured Tim. “More than you know.”
It was late afternoon before Grandpa straightened again, a satisfied smile replacing the worry in his face. “I’ll be finished by the time you’ve taken the oxteam to water at the stream, Timothy,” he said, stretching hard to ease cramped muscles. “With the good rest and feed the oxen have had, they should be ready for a long steady push. There’s going to be a moon the early part of the night. We can catch up with the others before daybreak.”
Tim moved quickly to bring the oxen from grazing near a small stream. But suddenly his heart began to jump. He stared in terror at an Indian who was crouched back in the willows.
With his throat closed up with fear, all Tim could do was stare. Then he gulped. He’d been too frightened before to notice, but the Indian was just a frightened boy too. His buckskin clothes were torn in many places, and there was a clumsy makeshift bandage across his left shoulder.
“Me Running Elk,” the boy said shyly. “Son of Long Bow.”
“You speak English?” Tim asked in surprise.
“Little bits,” Running Elk answered.
“Where did you come from?” Tim asked. “Are you alone?” He stepped back cautiously as the boy moved from his crouching position in the willows.
“Alone,” Running Elk answered.
Tim learned the boy had received a deep wound in his shoulder three days ago. Now he was feeling better, but was still quite weak. When he heard Tim and the oxen he crouched in the willows to hide.
Just then Grandpa shouted, “Timothy? What’s keeping you, lad?”
“I’m coming, Grandpa,” Tim answered. He turned back to the Indian boy. “I guess you’d better come with me.”
Quickly Tim told Grandpa what Running Elk had said. Grandpa nodded thoughtfully. When Tim finished, Grandpa’s first question was, “How long since you had something to eat, boy?”
“Three days. Few berries only.” Running Elk swallowed hard and turned away.
“No time for a fire,” Grandpa said. “But there’s still a bit of corn bread from breakfast and some jerked buffalo.”
The boy swallowed painfully again at the sight of the food, but he made no move toward it until Grandpa said, “Go ahead, boy. It’s for you.”
While the boy ate, Grandpa and Tim reloaded the wagon. “There’s just nothing else we can do but take you with us,” Grandpa finally announced.
Grandpa bandaged Running Elk’s wound before putting the boy in the back of the wagon. The sun was setting by the time they pulled away. It seemed a long time ago since the wagon train had left them alone.
Into the growing dusk Grandpa urged the oxen on as fast as they could go. Darkness came, and still they pushed on with only brief stops to rest the animals. The moon Grandpa had promised came nudging its way up from behind the hills, making their travel easier.
They walked much of the way to keep the load as light as possible. Even Running Elk left the wagon and walked with them.
Finally the wagon came to an abrupt halt. “Time we stopped for the night,” Grandpa said kindly. “We’re all dead on our feet.”
Tim was sure he had barely fallen asleep when he felt a sharp tug at his blanket.
“Come on, Tim,” Grandpa whispered. “It’s time to get going. It’s nearly light already.”
In spite of his eagerness to catch up with the other wagons, Tim wasn’t sure it was wise when his grandpa agreed to take a shortcut the Indian boy suggested.
“Running Elk says this way will save several miles,” Grandpa explained. “Maybe we’ll find the others before dark.”
An hour later Grandpa called a short stop. Restlessly Tim glanced around as he had done so often.
“Grandpa!” he cried in alarm.
Indians had appeared from behind all the boulders and trees. The wagon was surrounded!
Tim felt a strong knot of fear. Ahead of him, Grandpa was standing still and watchful. Tim jumped in surprise when Running Elk stepped away from the wagon and began shouting in a strange language.
The circle of Indians stood impassive for a moment, and then one of the tallest warriors stepped forward.
In a moment Running Elk turned and came back to the wagon. “This Swift Eagle, brother of my mother,” he explained. “Many hours they watch. Wonder when wagon turn from big trail. Few white men know this way through mountains.”
There was a lot of talk and laughter as the Indians expressed their thanks to Tim and Grandpa. “I tell of wound, big hunger, and how you help,” Running Elk told Grandpa. “Now my people wish to travel with you. Make sure no trouble comes for lone wagon.”
As they traveled together, the Indians made many jokes about the plodding oxen. They called the wagon a “mighty rolling tepee,” and each one came near to peer inside or to watch the wheels turn.
It was late afternoon when the wagon pulled back onto the main trail. It was dusk when the welcome sight of the circled wagon train lay just ahead.
Tim couldn’t help grinning at the flurry of excitement and alarm in the wagon camp at first sight of so many Indians approaching. A short distance from the camp, the Indians stopped.
“We turn back now,” Running Elk said.
“We sure do appreciate your help,” Grandpa said warmly.
The Indian boy smiled. “Running Elk also glad for you.” He grew more serious. “A message goes ahead through our country. Say friends travel this camp. No trouble.”
Before Tim went with Grandpa to join the other wagons, he stopped to say goodbye to Running Elk. He hoped he would see him again some day, but if he didn’t, Tim knew that even brief friendships can last for a lifetime.

I was soon to leave for my military service. Nevertheless, my desire to be around the missionaries and members grew powerfully. As soon as I learned a new principle of the gospel, I put it into practice. Just before I left, one of the elders said, “You know, you live like a Mormon, but you’re trying to become perfect before you will join the Church. That’s the wrong way. It’s the Church that will help you achieve perfection.” They told me I had a testimony, but I still wasn’t sure.
In the military I had time to let my feelings grow and develop. There was lots of time to think, and I reflected deeply on my impressions of the Church. I was stationed with the mountain troops in Briançon, with no LDS branch nearby. But I guarded the things I had learned in my heart and let the seed of faith grow.

As Sister Simpson and I walked along lower Queen Street in Auckland, New Zealand, the other day, we came to a particular place not far from the wharf. There we paused for a few moments as I related to her the incident that took place at that very spot during my first mission.
I could still see in my mind’s eye a very old Maori couple who stood at the curb with thousands of others waving farewell to the Maori Battalion as they marched down to their troop transport and off to war.
The old couple became very excited as one young soldier glanced their way with a big smile. From their Maori conversation, it became apparent that this was their great-grandson going off to war.
His would be an atomic war with sophisticated equipment capable of killing by the thousands—so unlike the Maori wars of the late 1800s that the old Maori had participated in as a young tribal warrior.
Soon the boy was gone from view, and it was then that the old man turned to his wife and said (perhaps a little cynically), “Katahi kua pakeha tatou,” which in effect means, “So now we are civilized.”

Let me share with you an example of the results of daily determination and performance.
In 1960 the Olympics were held in Melbourne, Australia. There on the winner’s platform in the spotlight one day stood a beautiful, tall, blonde American girl. She was being presented a gold medal, symbolic of first place in worldwide competition. As she stood there, some boys whistled and others were heard to say, “There’s a gal who has everything.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she accepted the recognition. Many thought she was touched by the victory ceremony. The thing most of the audience did not know was the story of her determination, self-discipline, and daily action. At the age of five she had polio. When the disease left her body, she couldn’t use her arms or legs. Her parents took her daily to a swimming pool where they hoped the water would help hold her arms up as she tried to use them again. When she could lift her arm out of the water with her own power, she cried for joy. Then her goal was to swim the width of the pool, then the length, then several lengths. She kept on trying, swimming, enduring, day after day after day, until she won the gold medal for the butterfly stroke—one of the most difficult of all swimming strokes—in Melbourne, Australia.
What if Shelly Mann had not been encouraged to achieve at age five and to continue and overcome? What a tremendous asset were parents who assisted her in the importance of now and today in preparation for tomorrow.

I will never forget a lesson that my dear wife, Sister Mutombo, taught me on the first day of our marriage. I remember that Sunday as if it was yesterday. We had no food in our home and no money to buy food. As a newly married husband, I truly wanted to provide for my new wife, but I had no means to do so. I felt very alone.
I looked at my wife lying on the mattress that we had put on the floor because we had no money for a bed. She was exhausted and hungry. I decided to visit a good friend of mine to find a solution to my trial. I left my wife alone in our small two-square-meter room and went to see my friend. He told me that he had no money to help me but gave me one dollar to use for transportation to get home. I saw this as an answer to many sincere prayers to my Heavenly Father, asking for His help and support. I decided to walk home and use the dollar to buy food for my wife because that is the only money I had.
On the way back home, I used the dollar to buy a small piece of meat and some bread and put it in a black plastic bag. I was so excited that I now had food to give to my wife and walked home quickly. It was after 9 p.m. when I got home, and my dear Nathalie was tired, exhausted, hungry, and probably wondering about her future. Can you imagine going without food on your first day of married life? When I arrived home, I proudly presented food to my wife, saying, “darling, I got some food for you, please wake up.”
She woke up and took the plastic bag and saw the piece of meat and bread. She asked, “where did you find the money to buy this food?”
I told her. She looked at me and asked an unexpected question. “Have you paid tithing on the one dollar you received?”
I replied, “Nathalie, this is just one dollar, do you think we need to pay tithing on it?”
She took the piece of meat and bread that I brought home to her, put it back in the bag and said that she would not eat the bread of a man who does not remember his covenant with God. I weep when I remember this experience. I repented immediately and promised my wife that never ever again would I make such a poor choice. She taught me what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ who keeps his covenants with God. I have since found great joy in paying an honest and full tithing. As President Russell M. Nelson said, the Church was not any different because I paid a full tithe, however becoming a full-tithe payer changed me as my faith in my Savior Jesus Christ increased.

The last stop Father had to make was in Sweden. It was Midsummer’s Eve when Milo’s family arrived in the capital city of Stockholm. Everyone was in a holiday mood. People in gay costumes had gathered for the early festival.
“Why do they celebrate Midsummer’s Eve?” Milo asked Father.
“The people in Sweden celebrate the return of summer to their land about the middle of June each year,” Father replied.
Groups of young people were talking, laughing, and dancing. Their gay costumes were bright in the sunshine. Several boys invited Milo to join in their celebrating. He looked at Father who nodded and said, “That sounds fun, but don’t stay too long.”
“Meet us back at the inn for dinner,” called Mother.
Near the center of the green where groups were dancing there was a large pole with colored streamers hanging down from the top. The word Majstang (Maypole) was posted on a nearby tree. Soon all the dancers gathered around the pole to sing folk songs. It was a colorful sight and everyone was so happy that Milo could not help joining in with them even though he did not know many of the words.
After awhile everyone broke into small groups again and began winding the pole. In and out, over and under, went the colorful ribbons as the dancers swayed and dipped and danced to the singing.
Milo was sorry when it was over. Then he noticed how low the sun was and remembered he was to meet his parents at the inn for smorgasbord.
The smorgasbord was quite different from any Milo had eaten at home. The tables were piled high with smoked and pickled fish, tongue, sweetmeats, spiced fruits, relishes, cheeses, and various kinds of soda water.
“After dinner we’ll have to watch some of the young people start up the mountain. They climb to the top every year to welcome the sunrise,” Father explained.
Milo wished he could go with them but the family was leaving early the next morning to go home.

From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t very happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of kilometers from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. A very clear voice said, “You are to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on 12 October 1995.

Their testimony of the gospel’s truthfulness strengthened members and challenged critics. A Palmyra resident purchased Joseph Sr.’s note and demanded instant payment but offered to forgive the debt if he would burn the Book of Mormon. Even though he was ill, Joseph refused and went to debtors’ prison for several weeks.

When the patriarch asked my son Blaine, his father, and me to come fasting to his home to receive a patriarchal blessing, he told Blaine that this preparation would help him to be able to give Blaine the blessing the Lord would have him receive.
We arrived at the patriarch’s home and the blessing began. It was a remarkable experience.
I felt I knew what the patriarch would say before he said it. The Lord seemed to be giving me some special insight about things I would need to know.
As Blaine grew a little older, it came time for him to go on a mission. He was interested in athletics, school, and many other things, and the thoughts of going on a mission did not fit into his plans.
One day, he said to his father: “Dad, do I have to go on a mission?”
His father replied, slowing his words thoughtfully: “No … Blaine … You don’t have to go on a mission. My sons are to make that decision and go because they want to go.”
He then came to me and told me that his father said he didn’t have to go on a mission, so he wasn’t going to go.
“But Blaine,” I said, “What about your patriarchal blessing? The blessing says you will have to bring the gospel to many.”
He didn’t reply but he was thoughtful. Later, he happened to meet a friend, crippled from poliomyelitis, who had just returned from his mission, excited and happy.
“Hey, David,” he said, “Why did you go on a mission?”
“Oh, Blaine, I went for the same reason every boy should go, to show the Lord how much I love him.”
The comment struck fertile ground. The words of his patriarchal blessing came back to him and Blaine committed himself to serve the Lord in the mission field.
My remarkable foreknowledge of Blaine’s blessing was a great aid to me in helping him make his decision to serve a mission. I think every mother in Zion is entitled to this kind of spiritual help in preparing her sons and daughters for the privilege and the responsibility of missionary service.

To promote modesty and values, the young women of the Torrance Second Ward in California had a modest “fashion shoot” for a recent Mutual activity. Each girl chose a value to portray in her clothing choice. The room where the young women meet was then transformed into a working photo studio, complete with studio lights and backdrop. Each girl had her own photo shoot with her value poster and then the photographer took group shots. Not only did the young women learn about the values, but they also realized modesty can be easy, fun, and fashionable. And it never goes out of style.

Tragedy continued to follow Joseph F. in his childhood. Before his sixth birthday his father Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were martyred in Carthage Jail. After his father’s death, Joseph F. helped his mother prepare for the trek west. Not yet ten years old, the boy drove two yoke of oxen from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley in the summer of 1848, a distance of over 1,000 miles. The journey was made even more difficult for the family since the captain of the train disapproved of Mary traveling without a husband, fearing that she would be a burden. But Mary was determined to ask for no special favors and promised that she would make the trip without his help and be the first to arrive in the valley. With fervent prayer and with the help of her young son, she kept that promise.

Growing up, I was always inclined to perfectionism. So when I received my patriarchal blessing, one admonition in particular seemed natural: to complete the tasks I was given “to the best of [my] ability, to perfection.” Only later would I start to realize how little I understood perfection—or the role of grace.
In 1998 I returned home early from a mission due to health problems. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt because I felt I had not completed my mission “to perfection.” Added to this sense of failure was uncertainty about my illness. So far, doctors had been unable to diagnose it.
In spite of my health challenges, I knew I needed to move forward, so I enrolled in a university to continue my education. After only two quarters, however, I returned home again, in pain, for urgent surgery. It was at this point that doctors discovered I had an autoimmune disease.
While I was recovering from surgery, I began working part-time at the chocolate store where I had been employed as a teenager. Even though I was doing what I could, I didn’t feel that I was pursuing anything worthwhile, much less completing it “to perfection.” I began to compare myself to others, especially to my friends who were completing their college degrees, serving missions, or starting families. I felt left behind.
Then I met Stephanie. She came into the candy store one day wearing a black scarf around her head. As I pointed out to her my favorite chocolate, I felt impressed to inquire about her situation. She smiled, removed her scarf, and, pointing to her bald head, told me she was going through chemotherapy. That exchange was the start of a special and candid friendship.
Stephanie came by the store regularly to enjoy a treat and talk about life. I learned that she was a member of the Church and that she had struggled spiritually as well as physically. She told me about some rebellious choices she had made and about her efforts to repent. She was working toward being sealed to her husband in the temple.
One day I shared some of my own challenges. I confided in her how discouraged I was by my circumstances. “I am scooping the same ice cream I scooped in high school,” I explained. “I didn’t complete my mission or college, and I don’t know what to do now.”
Stephanie responded, “Why do you have to finish the race of life in a set time? Why not just run the race?”
For the first time, I realized that the efforts I was making were my best, and my best was enough. The Savior loved me, and His grace, through His Atonement, was sufficient for me, for my deficiencies. Although I felt I had been looking to Him all along, until Stephanie shared her insight with me, I had somehow missed an important lesson about His role in my life.
Ether 12:27 says, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” As I have been able to humble myself and have faith in the Lord, I have seen over and over again that He does indeed make weak things become strong. My increased testimony of this truth has helped me face my challenges with greater faith and hope.
A few months after that conversation, I left my hometown to start a new job and lost contact with my friend. One day my mom called to tell me that she had seen Stephanie’s obituary in the newspaper. I came home to attend her funeral and learned she had been sealed to her husband just three weeks before her death.
My heart sighed with gratitude for having had Stephanie in my life and for what she taught me about running a perfect race. I don’t always need to sprint. Occasionally, it will be all I can do to simply face the finish line. Doing our best to move forward—no matter what speed “our best” is—is OK. Our efforts can be made perfect because the Lord’s grace is sufficient for us all (see Moroni 10:32).

After the opening exercises in Primary on Sunday, Jason stood up and told about his ancestors who had left Norway in 1860 and sailed to America. They had been persecuted in their homeland because they were Mormons.

“Thank you, President, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
What a great man, I thought to myself as I hung up the telephone. President Jerry E. Callister of the Mississippi Jackson Mission had just extended a two-week mission call to me to serve the Lord in the Bossier City, Louisiana, area. What a way to find out what true missionary work is like, I said to myself over and over.
I spent the next 24 hours packing, praying, and preparing myself for everything I could possibly come in contact with during the next two weeks. I prayed that I would be helpful to the missionaries, Elders Abbott and Watkins, with whom I would serve.
Saturday came quickly. My family drove me to Bossier, where we ate lunch before I called the elders from a pay phone across the street. After what seemed like an eternity but was only 10 or 15 minutes, the two young men, only a few years older than myself, pulled alongside us in their late-model mission car. I didn’t know what to do or how to act, but Mom quickly nudged me towards them. I timidly introduced myself to Elder Abbott. What a spiritual giant; I can’t possibly be of help to him, I thought to myself. And I questioned why I was out there.
After meeting Elder Watkins, I had nearly convinced myself that I couldn’t be of help to either of them.
I said good-bye to my family, and before I knew it the elders and I were out on the streets knocking on doors. I was amazed at how eloquently the elders approached the people. After an hour of tracting, Elder Abbott turned to me and said, “This house is yours.” I almost panicked. Out of nowhere I had this bone-chilling, nerve-deadening feeling.
“I can’t,” I said embarrassed.
“Yes you can,” he said. “You’ve got to think positively. There may be a potential convert in there.”
“Okay, okay,” I answered.
Knock, Knock.
As the door opened I could feel my heart sink down to my socks. The room was filled with drunken teenagers—I was only a teenager myself. As I began the door approach they began mocking and tempting us. Why me, Lord? I silently asked.
I didn’t knock on another door the rest of the evening. Later that night I began thinking about my day as a “full-time” missionary. Why did I have such feelings? Why was I scared to talk to people about the gospel? How would I be able to serve a two-year mission if I couldn’t even stand up to people and share the truths of the gospel for two weeks? I decided that there was only one way to get help with my concerns.
As I knelt down in humble prayer and poured out the desires of my heart to Heavenly Father, a peaceful feeling came over me. A still, small voice told me to search the scriptures. I began flipping through the pages of my Bible when I saw a verse outlined in red. It was a seminary scripture from the previous year. As I glanced down at it I knew my prayer had been answered. A warm feeling of insight and understanding came over me as I read the verse: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16).
Never before had this scripture come across to me with such astounding force. “The power of God unto salvation,” I said aloud. That was the key. I need not be ashamed of the gospel because it is the very key to salvation. Without it, not one soul will ever progress after this life.
The next morning I awoke with an inexpressible desire to spread the gospel.
Now five of the people I helped teach in those two weeks are members of the Church. What a strength we can receive through listening to the promptings of the Spirit!
I vividly remember the feeling I had as the Holy Ghost bore witness to me of that important scriptural message found in Romans. And to this day when I am confronted with an opportunity to share the gospel, that same still, small voice whispers in my ear, “the power of … salvation, the power of … salvation.”

Benjamin Juarez, 12, faces different challenges in Brooklyn. He was born in California, lived briefly in Mexico, and now, while his father is studying to be a doctor, Benjamin and his three younger brothers do what every successful Brooklyn child does: adapt.
“You can’t live here the same as you do other places,” Benjamin says. “For your own safety, you have to keep your eyes wide open.” Once, at school, some bigger boys jumped him. He’s never let that happen again. “You have to be a little tough, just for safety.”
That’s another lesson of city life: everyone takes care of himself, and that extends to the gospel. “My friends in the ward live a long way from me,” Benjamin says. “We only see each other on Mutual nights, Sundays, and for Scout activities. So everybody has to have his own testimony. He just can’t depend on anyone else for it.”

There was one letter whose source we won’t identify. It seemed so tragic. Such a little thing—something that any of us could easily do something about:
“I’m fifty-five now. I’ve worked hard all my life to get a house and a little business to take care of my family. But I’d give all that I own and gladly change jobs to whatever is the lowest thing I could do if only I thought my son and daughter appreciated me and loved me. It would mean more to me than anything in the whole world if they would just put their arms around me and look me in the eye and say, ‘I love you, Dad, I really do.’”

The institute also spreads its influence through a graduate scholarship program. Hector Solorio was one of Mexico’s top agronomy graduates in 1983. After receiving his bachelor’s degree, he gave up a graduate school scholarship to serve a mission. Since completing his mission, he is attending graduate school at BYU under a Benson Institute and Agricultural Economics scholarship. “These young people will return to their countries to become leaders in government and leaders in agriculture,” predicts Brother Brimhall. “We would like to sponsor hundreds more such students.”

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.
Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”
The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.