Gospel Story Finder

When I was 10 years old, I was baptized with my parents, brothers, and sisters. I’m so happy to have grown up having regular family home evening. Family home evening was the heart of our family.
I have now been a member of the Church for more than 45 years. With my own five children, the tradition continues. Monday nights are reserved for the family.
On the last Monday of the month, we have a longer activity we call our “outdoor” family home evening. We go to a movie, to visit the sick, to play in the park, to see Lola and Lolo (our grandparents), and so on.
The most unforgettable outdoor experience we have is when we serve street children. We cannot express the joy and happiness we feel in helping those in such need. We try, in our little way, to make those children happy and to let them know that somebody cares for them and knows we are all children of God.
Tita Mabunga Obial, Philippines

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.

The coming days would try the Saints, including the Whitneys. In a nationwide economic downturn and banking panic, many turned against the Church and the Prophet. Commanded to move to Missouri, Newel hesitated. He had poured his life into his store in Kirtland. Much of the wealth it made sustained the Church. How could he just walk away?

The Lord chastised him for paying too much attention to worldly things and for “littleness of soul” (Doctrine and Covenants 117:11). Newel repented and obeyed. He settled in Nauvoo, Illinois, where he continued serving as bishop and later as Presiding Bishop.

When I reflect on the race of life, I remember another type of race, even from childhood days. When I was about ten, my boyfriends and I would take pocketknives in hand and, from the soft wood of a willow tree, fashion small toy boats. With a triangular-shaped cotton sail in place, each would launch his crude craft in the race down the relatively rough waters of the Provo River. We would run along the river’s bank and watch the tiny vessels sometimes bobbing violently in the swift current and at other times sailing serenely as the water deepened.

During one such race, we noted that one boat led all the rest toward the finish line. Suddenly, the current carried it too close to a large whirlpool, and the boat leaned over on its side and capsized. Around and around it was carried, unable to make its way back into the main current. At last it came to an uneasy rest at the end of the pool, amid the other wreckage that surrounded it, held fast by the grasping, green moss.

The toy boats of childhood had no keel for stability, no rudder to provide direction, and no source of power. Inevitably their destination was downstream—the path of least resistance.

For Mackena, 15, her testimony did not come until after a very personal, painful trial of faith (see Ether 12:6).

“Until the time I was about 12,” she says, “I had never had a single doubt about the gospel. I knew that the temple was where I was going. I knew that my family could be together forever, that Heavenly Father loves me, and that the Church is true.

“But once I got into middle school, I began doubting a lot. And for three years I didn’t know that the Church is true. It was really hard. It was the loneliest, most terrible, saddest time in my life.”

Then one day her seminary teacher taught, “If you want faith, then it will come.” The message struck a chord with Mackena.

“I decided that I really wanted faith, because I was miserable. So I prayed a lot and I started reading my scriptures by myself for the first time in my life. And I repented. Now I feel that Jesus Christ is my very, very best friend. I know that He knows me and loves me.

“I’m just really grateful,” Mackena says, “because now I know how precious my faith is to me, and I never want to let that go—ever.”

When I was a mission president in South Africa in 2005, I felt a very strong prompting by the Spirit to move our Norwegian missionary, Elder Joseph Henriksen, all the way across the mission—in between normal transfer dates—to replace a missionary who needed to have surgery. I had just interviewed Elder Henriksen in Queenstown, a two-hour flight plus a two-hour drive away from Cape Town, and on the flight home the Spirit kept telling me that he was the one who needed to move into the Strand Branch and replace the elder needing surgery.
As soon as we returned to the mission home, I called Elder Henriksen and asked him to pack his bags. . . . We picked him up [the next day] and talked to him about his new area, where they hadn’t had a baptism for 18 months. I explained to Elder Henriksen that he was the one the Lord had selected to be there and to make a difference in that branch. We introduced him to his new companion, who drove him another hour to Strand, a beautiful beach area on the Atlantic Ocean, about 50 miles south of Cape Town.
The first week in his new area, Elder Henriksen was thumbing through the area book and found a referral that hadn’t been contacted in the seaside town of Hermanus, another hour south of Strand, but in their assigned area. There was a small branch in Hermanus with about twenty active members, but he and his companion were the closest missionaries. Not wanting to waste time, but feeling prompted to contact the referral, he and his companion looked up the addresses of all the members in Hermanus so they could visit them as well as contacting the referral. Then they set aside a day to visit Hermanus.
When that day came, Elder Henriksen and his companion taught a first lesson in the home they were referred to, then began visiting the members. They knocked on the door of a member lady who expressed great surprise at seeing elders at her door. “I didn’t think we had missionaries in Hermanus anymore!” she exclaimed. Then she told them it was the greatest day of her life. She had just received in the mail a 300-year history of her ancestors. She was excited to be able to do temple work for hundreds of family members who had gone on before. Then she told them that her only problem was that she couldn’t understand any of it because it was written in Norwegian.
Elder Henriksen looked at her, smiled and said, “I’m Norwegian!” What a tender mercy for the Lord to inspire a mission president to suddenly transfer the only Norwegian missionary on the African continent to the area where this dear sister lived and needed a Norwegian translator. While he served there, he was able to visit her once a week and complete the translation. This experience strengthened the faith of everyone involved.
But the story doesn’t stop there. Because of what Elder Henriksen saw and felt in Strand and Hermanus, he telephoned one morning and said, “President, if you will leave me here six months, I promise you we will have twenty baptisms in the Strand Branch!” I reminded him that they hadn’t had baptized anyone in that branch in a year and a half. But I felt inspired to leave him there for the six months. Well, he didn’t just baptize 20 people, he baptized 21 in just six months! The Strand Branch grew so fast that it soon became the Somerset West Ward in the Cape Town Stake with three sets of missionaries, and there were soon two full-time missionaries in Hermanus as well, where they had several baptisms in that small but growing branch. The Lord truly knows how to make sure the right person is in the right place at the right time.

Shortly after the NCAA finals, Britton announced his decision to serve a mission. The decision came at no small sacrifice. Many people, including Utah head coach Rick Majerus, say Britton has tremendous NBA potential, but leaving the game for two years may jeopardize his pro chances. “Coach was saying everything he could to get me to stay,” recalls Britton. “I’ve been told that if I stay for all four years in a row, I’d definitely go pro.”

For the first time in his life, Britton began to question whether he should go on a mission. Majerus told the press that if Britton were to go after being benched all year, “his pro chances are null and void and his chance for a college career is really in peril. He can’t sit three years.”

In the end, Britton’s coach supported his decision. “It is with regret and sadness from a basketball standpoint that Britton departs, but I am pleased because he seems to be so at peace and happy about the decision,” said Majerus. “I’m proud to be a coach of so many young men who felt so good about a religious experience that they would want to sacrifice their basketball.”

Talena was unhappy. It was the first day of school, but not for her. Talena was too little to go to school. Mother and her sister Laresa were hurrying around the house getting everything ready for this important day.
“Where is my other new shoe?” Laresa called. “I can’t find my writing book either.”
“Look in your drawer,” Mother suggested.
Never had Talena seen so much excitement, except maybe on Christmas morning.
“Why can’t I go to school too?” Talena asked.
“Next year you’ll be five and then you can go, honey,” Mother answered as she hurried down the hall with Laresa’s shoe.
“But I want to go today!” Talena insisted. However, everyone was too busy to listen to her.
Talena sat down and frowned. It’ll be awful to stay home without Laresa. There won’t be anyone to play with, she thought sadly as Mother came back down the hall.
“I wish I were five years old like Laresa, then I could go to school today,” Talena said.
“That’s right,” Mother said as she hurried past Talena.
Laresa was finally ready to go.
“Good-bye, Talena,” she called. “We’ll play together after school and I’ll tell you everything that happens to me today.”
“Good-bye!” Talena shouted after her sister.
“Be a very, very good girl,” Mother called to Laresa.
As soon as her older sister had gone, Talena ran to their bedroom. She took one of Laresa’s dresses out of the closet and put it on. Then she put on her play high heel shoes and carefully measured herself on the growth chart. It measured just right! She was as tall as Laresa. Hurriedly she slipped on her sweater and got her writing notebook out of the drawer.
“Mother,” Talena called. “I’m five now. Can I go to school?”
Mother looked at Talena with an understanding smile. “But you won’t really be five years old until July,” Mother said, giving her a hug.
“But I’m as tall as Laresa now and her dress almost fits me. I’m five now!”
Mother sat down beside Talena. “Years aren’t measured by how tall you are or by how big your dress is,” she said.
“They aren’t?” Talena began to frown again.
“No, years are measured by months. The only way you can become five is to wait until all the months have passed and July is here again. Then on your birthday you will be five years old.”
“Can’t I try to be five now?” Talena asked hopefully.
“No. All you can do is wait until July,” Mother said. “But I’m glad you’re still home with me.”
Talena walked back to the bedroom. She slowly hung up Laresa’s dress and began to pick up her toys. As she was working she had an idea. Faster and faster she worked until the room was all clean. She sat her dolls on her bed and put on her very best dress-up hat. Then she put on Mother’s old pink dress and got her dress-up purse.
“Now,” Talena said to her dolls, “I’m the teacher and you had better be very, very good children. It’s time for school to start.”

My mother is a very special woman. I am the oldest of eight sons, and I also have seven sisters. With such a large family, my mother had great responsibilities. The best thing my mother did for us was to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She gave us the opportunity to learn about the gospel. This opportunity changed our lives.
I remember the day we received the missionaries. I was about 10 or 11 years old. The missionaries shared a message about the First Vision. As soon as my mother listened, she was converted. She believed Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son.
We began to attend church. I didn’t want to accept the gospel at first, but the missionaries persuaded me to see what it was all about. As soon as I did, I loved it. I am so grateful for my mother. She received a testimony during that first visit of the missionaries. From her baptism until today, she never missed a Church meeting.

Clink! Clink! The coins jingled as eight-year-old Angela dropped them into her strawberry-colored tin box. “Three-eighty, three-ninety, four dollars, four dollars and ten cents,” she counted softly to herself, pinching the last dime between her thumb and finger and dropping it thoughtfully into the container. “Just one more week,” she added, replacing the lid of the tin. “With next week’s allowance, I’ll have enough.”
She glanced wistfully at the white dresser top—clean, dusted, and waiting. Since her neighbor Jeff had shown her his goldfish, she couldn’t wait to have her own. She needed just two more dollars—the amount of her allowance—for a glass bowl, a nice fat fish, and a supply of food.
Three times she’d visited the pet store on Market Avenue, pedaling her bicycle home faster each time out of sheer excitement. Mr. Henry, the shop owner, now knew her by name. “Hello, Angela,” he had called from behind the puppy cages the last time she went in. “We have a new shipment of fish this morning. Take a look.”
All week, Angela faithfully sped through her chores. The bathroom sink had never gleamed so brightly. Doc, the family’s lively puppy, awoke each day to a clean dish with a small heap of dog food and fresh water. Angela’s daisy-spotted comforter was pulled neatly into place without a wrinkle every morning. The whole family marveled at how quickly and well she cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. By the end of the week, there was no question that Angela deserved her two dollars.
Clutching the crinkled bills in one hand, she raced to her room, grabbed the red tin from her closet shelf, and dumped the money into a mound in the middle of her bed. She added the allowance money to the pile and counted quickly. Six dollars and ten cents—barely enough, but enough! She could go straight to the pet store!
“Oh-oh! Wait a minute,” Angela whispered, picking up the last two dollars. She flung herself backward onto the soft yellow covers, moaning, “I forgot about tithing!”
She sat up again and studied the empty dresser top. Maybe I should use my tithing money and get the fish, anyway, she thought. I could pay it back next week.
The idea appealed to her. As she dropped the money into the empty tin and started to get up, she noticed a small gray envelope lying unsealed on the nightstand. She’d planned to add this week’s tithing to the envelope and turn it in on Sunday. With the tithing envelope in one hand and the bright tin box in the other, she pondered her choices. Her ponytail swayed back and forth as she studied first one, then the other. Finally she whispered, “Tithing shouldn’t wait.”
With a tug, Angela opened the money tin again, picked out two dimes, and tucked them into the envelope. Sighing with both relief and disappointment, she finished filling out the tithing slip, slid it under the money in the envelope, licked the flap, and sealed it.
On Sunday, she gave the gray envelope to her bishop.
Although she was still sad on Monday morning, her chores seemed easier somehow and took less time than usual. The week passed swiftly. When she received her allowance, there was no need to count the money in the tin box after taking out her tithing. There was more than enough.
Saturday morning, Angela stood outside the door of the pet shop at 9:55 A.M. while her mother waited in the car. When Mr. Henry turned the “closed” sign around and peered out the window, he waved at her and hurried to the front door. She wriggled with excitement as she heard his keys jingling.
“Well, Angela,” he greeted her, “I thought you’d be here last week.”
Angela smiled. “I had to wait.”
“You’ll be happy that you did,” Mr. Henry said. “We’re running a special on goldfish this week. Two for the price of one.”
With a jubilant smile, Angela followed him into the store.
Riding home, Angela clutched her glass bowl, the plastic bag holding two fish, and the box of fish food. She still had almost two dollars in her pocket. “You know what, Mom?” she said. “Bowls can wait and fish can wait, but tithing should never wait.”

“Marionette,” called out the teacher.
Lucia stood before the class, her dark eyes shining and her hands clasped before her in eager anticipation. Her only opponent, Susan Hanley, spelled quickly, “M-a-r-i-o-n … ” She hesitated a moment before finishing, “e-t.”
“I’m sorry,” said the teacher, “but that’s the wrong spelling.”
Lucia felt sorry for Susan, whose crushed expression and flushed face mirrored her disappointment. Should I misspell the word and end the contest in a tie? Lucia wondered.
Lucia didn’t want to begin her first week at a new school making an enemy. She wondered if Susan was like Donna at her former school. Donna and Lucia had battled constantly for first place in everything.
“Marionette,” the teacher repeated.
Lucia tore her gaze from Susan and began to spell the word: “M—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and began again, “M-a-r-i-o-n-e-t-t-e.”
“The winner is Lucia Martin!” declared the teacher.
Lucia smiled weakly and looked at Susan. Susan’s eyes were downcast, and her complexion was a dull brick red. Lucia’s stomach lurched. I did the wrong thing, she decided.
Just then the recess bell rang, and the fourth grade class spilled out onto the playground. Lucia trailed with heavy steps, her eyes following Susan. I don’t want to compete with her, she thought. I just want to be friends. But she knew how hard it was not to compete. She could never resist trying to beat Donna.
Lucia found herself standing near Susan and another girl.
“Too bad about the spelling bee,” Susan’s friend was saying. “Up until now you hadn’t lost any. Will your folks be upset?”
Susan picked nervously at the buttons on her coat. “I suppose so,” she muttered dully. “My parents get upset whenever they think I’m not doing as well as my sister Sylvia. The trouble is, my sister’s good at everything! I’m tired of trying to keep up with her.”
Poor Susan, Lucia thought. At least I don’t have those problems.
“Let’s play jump rope,” Susan’s friend suggested. “Everyone knows you’re the best rope jumper in the school!”
Immediately a game of jump rope was started, and Lucia asked to turn one end of the rope. Before long she forgot her troubles and was shouting the chants with the others.
Soon it was Susan’s turn to jump. The girls counted out the turns of the rope together. On and on they counted. Lucia found herself cheering for Susan with the rest. “Hit two hundred!” she called. “You can do it!”
The girls counted excitedly, “193, 194, 195, …”
Susan’s face was the color of a ripe tomato. Lucia could hear her gasping for breath as the girls called out, “198, 199, 200!”
As the girls cheered the exhausted jumper, Susan’s shoe caught the rope and she went down on one knee.
Lucia put out a hand to help Susan up. But Susan jerked away, looking triumphant. “Let’s see you beat that!” she whispered.
Lucia’s face burned. As she took her turn jumping the rope, a familiar anger tightened her stomach. It was happening all over again.
The only sound was the slap of the rope and the tap of her leather shoes on the cement as she easily jumped to fifty. The rope arched up and down, over and over again, making a whooshing sound as it cut through the air.
The girls began to count aloud now, “101, 102, …”
Lucia’s breath came in shallow pants. Her hands clenched and unclenched automatically. Her leather shoes beat out a pattern on the concrete. The perspiration on her forehead trickled down her nose. She wiped it away quickly.
Above the roar in her ears she heard, “189, 190, 191, …” Her legs felt heavy now, and there was a tingling numbness in the soles of her feet. She felt a strange elation. “… 195, 196, …”
Then Susan’s face loomed before her. She saw the crumpled features and brimming eyes of her defeated opponent in the spelling bee. Lucia knew what she must do. When “199” rang out, she dragged one foot just as the rope hit the ground. She fell to her hands and knees gasping for breath. The girls crowded around her expressing sympathy.
Lucia gazed into the gray eyes of her opponent, noting Susan’s look of satisfaction. Then Susan’s eyes widened as she recognized Lucia’s sacrifice to win her friendship. A flush crept slowly up Susan’s cheeks before she lowered her eyes.
Please understand, Lucia pleaded silently. People are more important than winning or losing.
When Susan looked up again, her eyes had softened and tiny twinkly lights glinted in their depths. She smiled warmly and held her hand out to Lucia to help her up.

First, from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994): He described an assignment he had received from the President of the Church following World War II. President Benson was to leave his wife and family and go to the devastated members of the Church in Germany and other nations. Through the God-inspired welfare program, he literally fed the hungry, comforted the weeping, and lifted closer to heaven all with whom he met. Years later, at a dedication service at Zwickau, Germany, an elderly member, with moist eyes, said to me, “Please tell President Benson that we love him. He saved our lives: mine, my wife’s, my children’s, and many, many others’. He was as an angel sent by God to literally restore to us hope and confidence in the future. Tell him we love him.”

When I opened my report card and saw the “Passed to sixth grade,” I smiled and waited impatiently to be dismissed. Soon everyone was rushing out the door, anxious to enjoy a glorious, carefree summer. When I got home, however, I found out that it was going to be a different kind of summer.
My little sister, Midge, was waiting on the back porch with her chin in her hands. When she saw me coming through the yard, she perked up and smiled. I bounded up the back porch steps and burst into the house. “I passed!” I shouted as I headed for the stairs.
Midge followed me to my room and collapsed across my bed as I pulled my dress over my head. I yanked on a pair of pants and was reaching for a T-shirt, when I heard my younger brother, Art, pounding up the stairs.
“I passed!” he called, zooming into his room. “What are we going to do first?” he shouted eagerly. “Have a circus or build a lean-to or what?”
I opened the door, tugged at my tennis shoe, and called, “Dig an underground!”
Instantly he appeared at the door of my room. “Huh?”
“Dig an underground!” I repeated and reached for a scrap of paper on my nightstand. I laid it on my bed, smoothing it flat, and pointed out the tunnels and rooms, explaining each passageway.
“Wow!” he gasped. “We can have secret meetings there and everything!”
“Right. And we’ll dig an entrance behind Joey and Darlene’s garage”—I pointed—“if they help us dig.”
“They’re coming over as soon as they change their clothes,” Art said with a nod.
“Good. Then we can get started.”
I folded the plans and shoved them into my pocket. With Art and Midge close behind, I rushed downstairs. In the kitchen Mom was waiting. “We’re going to dig an underground in the vacant lot,” I announced, heading for the back door.
“Art and Midge can go,” Mom said, “but I’d like to talk to you, Brea.”
I looked at her questioningly, then handed Art the plans. “You can start digging, I guess.”
They went out on the back porch and looked over their shoulders through the screen door. “Go on,” I told them. “You can start without me.”
Mom sat at the table and shook her head, smiling. “Brea, you’ll soon be eleven. Your older sister has gotten a summer job, so you can’t be spending this summer as you usually do, because I need you to take over some of the things she did.”
Beyond the garage, Joey and Darlene were probably joining Midge and Art, and I squirmed in my chair. “But, Mom …”
“Honey, you’re getting too old to be doing nothing but playing. It’s time you learned some practical things and helped around here a little more.”
I looked at the sunny blue sky and beckoning summer. “I do chores, Mom.”
“Yes, but with Sharlene working, I need you to help more, and I’d appreciate it if you’d start by scrubbing the bathroom floor. Now.”
Mom said it kindly, but firmly. It was a tone I never argue with.
As I sloshed soapy water back and forth over the tiled floor, I could hear the gang outside. I stopped and looked wistfully out the window at them. This isn’t the kind of summer I planned at all, I thought disgustedly. I’m their leader, and here I am, inside working!
The following day I had to help Mom clean out the hall cupboard. At noon Art and Midge came in, looking like happy orphans, and I asked how the underground was coming.
“We’re building a treehouse instead,” Art announced excitedly. “The ground’s too hard to dig.”
They raced upstairs to wash, and it slowly dawned on me: I was no longer their leader. None of them were moping around, wondering what to do, or bugging me for suggestions. They were doing fine without me. Suddenly I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
That afternoon I went to the orchard and picked cherries, just as I had every summer. This time, though, Mom said she’d teach me how to make piecrusts. I didn’t care much about learning to make piecrusts, but at dinner, as Dad eased his fork into a wedge of pie, I found myself waiting breathlessly. It seemed to take him forever to get that bite into his mouth. Then a broad smile crossed his face.
“The best pie I’ve ever tasted,” he said grandly.
Mom grinned and patted my hand. “Brea made it all by herself,” Mom announced proudly. “Everything from picking the cherries to taking it out of the oven.”
On Friday Mom sent me to get some things from the store. Walking home along Poplar Street, the fine spray of a hose shocked me out of my daydreaming. I looked up and saw Beverly Tinber hosing down her sidewalk.
“Did I get you wet?” she called. “Sorry.”
I brushed the drops of water from my arm and grinned. “Not very. Is this where you live?”
“Yeah,” she said with disgust in her voice. She turned off the water and came over to talk to me. “I hate doing chores!”
“Me, too,” I agreed. “What do you like to do?”
She pushed out her bottom lip and blew upward, trying to blow her hair out of her eyes. “I wish there were some woods around here. I’d like to go for a cool walk.”
I grinned. “There’s a woods at the end of our road. I’d be glad to take you, if you’d like.”
She smiled eagerly. “Really? How do I get there?”
“Just go to the school, then walk to Murdock’s Lane and turn onto Painter Avenue, then … Oh, that’s too complicated. I could just meet you at the school. How about Saturday? Could you go Saturday morning?” I asked anxiously.
“I think so. Give me your telephone number, and I’ll call you.”
I ripped a tiny scrap of paper from the grocery bag, scribbled my phone number on it, then handed it to her.
“I’ll give you mine, too,” she said as she reached for the pencil.
As I waved and started for home again, I knew I had a smile on my face. This was a different kind of summer, all right. But maybe different wasn’t going to be all bad!

I remember a story about cows that was told many years ago by one of our church leaders. He said that he had a city cousin who came to their farm to stay with them. This city cousin didn’t know where milk actually came from. He thought it just came in bottles. When the family told the boy that milk came from cows, he didn’t believe it. Then when he saw the cows eating green grass, he felt sure that they couldn’t turn it into white milk! But when milking time came and he saw streams of white milk coming right from the cow, he was confused.

After the cows were all milked, it was time to feed the calves. He watched in amazement as one of the boys put two of his fingers in a calf’s mouth so it would start sucking. Then the boy put his hand and the calf’s nose right down into a bucket of warm milk. The calf got its milk by sucking on the fingers submerged in the milk bucket.

About this time it suddenly dawned on the city cousin what was happening. “Hey, now I understand!” he said excitedly. “You put it into them when they are little, and you take it out of them when they are big!”

Well, most people understand that it isn’t quite that simple, but this story serves as an example from which you can learn. Your parents and teachers put a lot of training, teaching, and helping into you, and the day will come when the Church and the schools and the businesses and the government will need to get it all back out of you.

At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.

In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.

I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.

I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

I was born in Australia and lived in the community of Byron Bay, located on the eastern seacoast. I remember the great ships that used to sail up the coast of Australia. Very often they would come into port at Byron Bay. During storms, though, the ships would have to put out to sea again to avoid getting smashed against the rocky beaches or wooden piers.
When I was about seven or eight years old, I had an experience that had a tremendous impact on me. My father came bursting into the house very late one night. Outside, there was a blinding rainstorm, and a large ship—one of the largest to sail along the coast—was struggling to get out to the open sea. Its crew members had been celebrating in town and had delayed returning to the ship to prepare it properly for sailing. As a result, the coal-burning vessel didn’t have enough steam to sail out of port and away from danger.
My parents bundled my brother, sister, and me up in our oilskin coats, and we went down to the harbor to watch the crew frantically trying to sail to safety. The sea was rough. The waves were high. Hundreds of townspeople roused from their beds had gathered on the shore to watch and pray that the ship would make it.
I remember that the ship was all alight as it tossed on the waves. We knew that dozens of crew members were in the hold, shoveling coal into the engine’s furnaces, attempting to get up enough steam to sail to safety. It was an awesome and frightening sight to a little boy.
Suddenly a cheer burst from the crowd. The ship was obviously clear of the pier, and we watched as her bow turned seaward. It looked as though she would make it to the open sea. She went for a short distance; then, because she didn’t have sufficient steam, she lost the struggle. The waves beat too heavily against her, and that great ship swung around, raced straight up onto the beach, and splintered against the rocks. She never sailed again.
I’ve never forgotten that night. It’s as vivid in my memory today as it was when it happened so many years ago. I believe that I am a General Authority today because of the lesson that I learned that night—to prepare myself so that I can head in the proper direction with sufficient strength.

A true story from Kenya.
One bright Easter Sunday, Ryan woke up early and ran to the kitchen. He could smell the coconut and spices from the mahamri Mum had just made. Ryan took a bite of one of the warm, fluffy triangle donuts. “Mum! It’s Easter! Can we watch the Jesus movie today?” he asked with a big smile.
Mum looked at him and smiled. “Of course!”
Ryan’s little brother, Liam, ran outside as Mum and Ryan sat down to watch the movie.
They saw Jesus Christ perform miracles and serve people. Then when the people hurt Jesus, Ryan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Mum, why did they do that to Jesus?” he asked sadly.
“He chose to suffer for us,” Mum said. “He loves us so much, Ryan. He died so we can live again.”
When the movie showed Jesus Christ’s Resurrection, Ryan smiled. “Look, Mum! He’s alive again!”
“That’s right,” Mum said. “He is risen! Just like the angel said in the Bible.”
Later, Ryan went outside to play. He saw Liam playing with sticks under the mango tree.
“Liam! I want to tell you a cool story,” Ryan said.
Liam waited as Ryan sat down under the mango tree. “Is it about cars?”
“No. Even better!” Ryan said. “It’s about Jesus. He died, but then He came back to life.”
“Really?” Liam asked.
“Yes! An angel said, ‘He is not here, for He is risen!’ That means we can live again too.”
“Wow!” Liam said. “Jesus really is strong.”
Ryan nodded. He thought about how much Jesus Christ loved him. It made his heart feel full and happy. He had shared the good news with his family, and that made his Easter even more special.

At the age of 15, after the death of my father, one of my brothers, Toribio Castaños, took me to live in his house and took me in like a son. At that time, he had already been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for several years. He made sure I went to church and received lessons of salvation through the missionaries. This has been the greatest and most significant service I have received in this life. I love my brother Toribio and I will be eternally grateful to him for putting all his effort into helping me to embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ and thus changing the course of my life.

Let me tell you an unusual experience that happened to me while I was presiding over the Florida Mission. It all started when I received a letter from a sister named Flavia Salazar Gomez.
In her letter, Flavia stated she had joined the Church when she was about 12 years old, and had been very active in Mexico. Later she had fallen in love with a Dominican man, married him, and moved with him to the Dominican Republic. Flavia thought she was the only Latter-day Saint in the whole country of five million people. She mentioned that she had a year-old baby boy who had not been named or blessed.
She wrote that she was seriously ill with cancer and had been told she did not have very long to live. She asked if it would be possible for someone holding the priesthood to come to Santiago to bless her baby and to give her a blessing.
I wrote to her and told her we would get there as soon as possible. There was one Latter-day Saint family living in Santo Domingo—Dale Valentine and his wife and children. I wrote Brother Valentine and asked if he would take me to Santiago so we could find Flavia and give her a blessing.
When we arrived at the outskirts of Santiago, Brother Valentine asked me where Flavia lived. At that moment we realized that none of us knew exactly. We didn’t have a street address; all I knew was her name and that she was hoping we would come.
We stopped for a few minutes on a high point overlooking the city. I told Brother Valentine to drive into the city and turn to the left. He obediently drove on. I then told him to make a right turn and proceed toward the center of this large, congested city.
I said, “Go to the next corner; make a right turn; and after you turn, you will find an empty parking place.”
He drove to the corner and made the right turn. There in front of us was an open parking place. We parked, got out of the car, and stood. “Now what do we do?” he asked.
I said, “Let’s just start asking people.”
There was a man on the sidewalk leaning up against the front of a residence. Brother Valentine went over to him and asked him in Spanish if he knew Flavia Salazar Gomez.
Surprised, the man said, “Yes, she’s my wife. She’s just inside that door.” We had parked in front of their home.
Flavia’s husband went inside and she came out onto the sidewalk with her baby. We were invited into the home and were delighted to know that she was living the Word of Wisdom and that she prayed every day. Because of her illness, she couldn’t attend church, but she felt she was a good, faithful member.
We named and blessed the little boy, and then I asked Brother Valentine to give Sister Gomez a blessing in Spanish. I felt impressed to tell him to bless her that she would recover from her cancerous condition and become well.
Six months later, I stopped in Santo Domingo and Brother Valentine drove me to where Flavia and her husband were living. We found her in good health, looking well and happy. She told us she had been completely cured.
When this lovely young mother had needed a priesthood blessing, she knew there was no way to receive one except to ask the Lord to help her. So she had very simply written a letter to the mission president, whom she didn’t know. The mission president had read her letter and immediately done what the Lord told him to do: he had arranged to go and answer her need. It was that simple.

Tuesday, June 8, 1982, dawned bright and clear in London, England. It was destined to be an historic day. A spirit of excitement permeated the very air and filled expectant hearts with keen anticipation. The President of the United States of America had arrived in Great Britain and soon would be addressing Parliament. Crowds gathered for the occasion, filled the streets and overflowed the nearby park. Uniformed policemen maintained order while famous Big Ben chimed its proud and clarion call which marked the appointed hour.
My wife, Frances, and I stood midst the milling crowd. Then, suddenly, Parliament’s doors swung open, the Prime Minister and the President greeted the throng, entered their limousines, and the motorcade drove slowly away. The crowd gave a mighty cheer, then began to disperse. Frances and I walked from the sunbathed street into the semi-dark, yet welcome, refuge of Westminster Abbey.
A reverence filled this world-famous edifice, as it should. For here, kings are crowned, royalty wedded, and rulers, whose mission of mortality has ended, are honored then buried. We walked along the aisleways, thoughtfully reading the inscriptions which marked the tombs of the famous. We remembered their achievements, recalled their deeds of valor, and marked their well-earned places in the world’s history. Then we paused before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, one of many who fell in France during the Great War. From an unmarked grave, the body of this fallen youth had been brought to London to forever lie in honor. I read aloud the inscriptions: “They buried him among the kings because he had done good toward God and toward His house.” “In Christ shall all be made alive.”
Toward the doorway we walked. Still visible in the park beyond were the remnants of the crowd. The immortal words of Rudyard Kipling coursed through my mind and spoke to my soul:
The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice:
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget.
(“Recessional”; see also Hymns, no. 77.)
One final marker to see, one more inscription to read. As a Scouter, I had come from America to view the plaque of honor dedicated to the memory of Scouting’s founder, Lord Baden-Powell. We stood before the magnificent marble memorial and noted the words:
Robert Baden-Powell, 1857–1941
Founder of the Boy Scouts
Friend of all the World
On that day during this year which commemorates the 75th anniversary of Scouting and the 125th anniversary of its founder, I pondered the thought, “How many boys have had their lives blessed—even saved—by the Scout movement begun by Baden-Powell?” Unlike others memorialized within the walls of Westminster Abbey, Baden-Powell had neither sailed the stormy seas of glory, conquered in conflict the armies of men, nor founded empires of worldly wealth. Rather, he was a builder of boys, one who taught them well how to run and win the race of life.