Gospel Story Finder

There’s a hospital in New York called a foundling hospital that cares for orphaned infants. Their mortality rate some years ago was unbelievable. About two out of three died, no matter what the directors and doctors did in terms of constant surveillance, medical care, all the things that you do to keep a child alive. Two out of three still died.
And then they discovered a ward in that hospital where all of these little kids were flourishing. There was a light in their eyes; they would eat instead of ignore their food; they smiled and gooed, and their crying wasn’t a chronic sick cry. It was a “let you know what is needed” cry.
They couldn’t understand why these children were so hale and hearty—until they discovered old Anna, not a nurse but a washwoman. A huge, older woman, she would strap (she knew she shouldn’t, but she waited till nobody was watching) a little baby on each hip, and then while she was working along she would cluck, and put a hand under each baby’s head, and say nice things.
These children lived because they were loved! The others died because they weren’t. Love is a matter of life and death, and you’d better believe it!

As early Saints reached Utah, President Brigham Young issued calls to some of them to serve missions to many nations of the world, to others to colonize areas outside the Salt Lake Valley. George Careless was prepared to accept any call he received.
“Brother George,” President Young said, “I have a mission for you. … I want you to take the Tabernacle Choir … and lay a foundation for good music in Utah.” Brother Careless accepted the call.
When President Young called him to his musical mission, George replied, “I will do the best I can with the material I can get.”
The prophet responded, “You will have to make that.”
Organizing a choir in the rough conditions of frontier living took determination and grit as well as talent. At his first rehearsal of the choir, only forty members were present. The Tabernacle, still under construction, had no heating or lighting. Choir members held a candle in one hand, their music in the other.

Working with youth can be difficult. How is your relationship with the young people of the Church?
Our youth in Russia seem to lack initiative, self-esteem, and confidence in social situations. We must develop all of these things in our youth and be able to reach their hearts. Going on picnics together, I felt a mutual understanding grow, and we became friends. The same thing happened when I began to invite youth from all the six St. Petersburg branches. Now our youth gladly come out to activities.

“I can’t say enough good about my mother. She was a wonderful woman,” Elder Osborn said. “She was a very refined Bostonian and came from comfortable circumstances. She joined the Church, as did one of her sisters, and came out west. My father had been involved in real estate, but when the Depression hit, there was very little work of any kind. After he died, my mother had to support the family. Under the direction of the Relief Society General Board, she started the first LDS Social Services in California, which helped people find employment and helped them with other needs. Mother also served as Relief Society president during my growing-up years. She was always concerned about other people.

History tells us, for example, of a great council held in A.D. 325 in Nicaea. By this time Christianity had emerged from the dank dungeons of Rome to become the state religion of the Roman Empire, but the church still had problems—chiefly the inability of Christians to agree among themselves on basic points of doctrine. To resolve differences, Emperor Constantine called together a group of Christian bishops to establish once and for all the official doctrines of the church.
Consensus did not come easily. Opinions on such basic subjects as the nature of God were diverse and deeply felt, and debate was spirited. Decisions were not made by inspiration or revelation, but by majority vote, and some disagreeing factions split off and formed new churches. Similar doctrinal councils were held later in A.D. 451, 787, and 1545, with similarly divisive results.

I started preparing to be a professional ball player at the age of three, and I never took my mind off it. And that was one of my problems. I didn’t think that public school or church had anything to do with becoming a ball player, and because of my poor vision in terms of values, I had to learn a very hard lesson. Everything I did from age three until I was 18 and signed that first professional ball contract was oriented toward the ball field. I ate, slept, and drank baseball. That’s all I could think of, but it was necessary in terms of my preparation. My only problem was I got overbalanced in it. I collected more Wheaties box tops than you can ever imagine, because I thought there was some correlation between eating Wheaties and being a better ball player.
For 12 years of public education I never took a book home to study. I’m not proud of it. I’m sorry, and I’ve tried to repent, and I’m spending the rest of my life paying the price of the void that I created by that silly observation of a few years ago, thinking as I used to in algebra and English, “Of what value is this to me if I become a great pitcher? I can throw a curve ball just as well without algebra and English as I can with it.” I used to go home and say, “Yep, I’m all prepared for life. I can throw as hard as anybody and run just as fast and hit just as far. So don’t bother me.” I’ve lived to see the fallacy of that one.
When it came time to go to church on Sunday, I took it as a personal affront to me, because how could church help me be a better ball player?
That’s the way my mind worked. I’m not saying that becoming a great ball player or lawyer or doctor isn’t important. It is; it’s necessary for temporal salvation, but it isn’t the most important thing that we’re sent to earth to do. It’s the eternal things that really count, and it’s a sharp, intelligent person who can catch this vision early and do something about it.
At the age of three I had not calculated that World War II would be on the scene. I hadn’t put that in my program. I didn’t know about it, and little did I know that Uncle Sam would tap me on the shoulder when my 18th birthday came and say, “Come on, buddy, follow me. That’s what you’re going to do for the next three years.”
Three months before I had signed my first ball contract. Do you know what that means? Here I planned for 15 years to be what I wanted to be. I had eight major league scouts tracking me down; I was finally graduated from high school and arrived at age 18 when I was permitted by my parents to sign that contract and to put my name on the dotted line with what was then a pretty good bonus. You know what kind of thrill that is for a teenager? I wish I had the ability to tell you. And then I reported to that first team, and I stepped into that dugout with a new number. You know what a thrill that is? Then to get a letter two or three months later that says, “Forget that, brother, and follow me. We have other plans for you.” That’s what I hadn’t counted on. That was the uncertain part of my life that I had never planned for; there are those things in the lives of us all.

The memory of that year is still strong. I can remember the smells, the colors, the people, the way the air felt and tasted. I was young, quite young then, but I can still remember.
The transition of summer fading into winter had already begun. The air was cold enough at night to leave a frost on the windows. The leaves of the poplar trees had turned from green to bright yellow, and the potawatomi plums were ripe.
I’d gone down to a thicket of potawatomi trees that grew near Grandma Gleaves’s place with two of my friends. The fruit was warm and fragrant from lying in the sun and was juicy and sweet. We sat under the trees eating and watching Grandma Gleaves’s house. The juice, the color of ripe canteloupes, streamed down our faces.
“I wonder if she’s in there.”
“She never leaves the place.”
“Come on, she’s gotta go out sometime.”
“Nope, Mr. Wilson brings her groceries to her every Saturday.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve watched him. I sat right here.”
“Ever see her?”
“I saw something move through a window once, and I heard her say something to Mr. Wilson when he was bringing her a load of coal.”
“What did she say?”
“It was too far away. I couldn’t hear too well.”
“It’s not that far.”
“I bet you can’t hit it from here.”
Kim reached down and picked up a bright red globe and then stood up.
“I wonder what she looks like.”
He leaned back and threw. The potawatomi arched up into the blue sky and then dropped down, splattering on the ground in front of the porch.
“I can do better than that.”
“Maybe she’ll come out.”
“Naw, she never comes out.” Rick stood up and threw. A fiery golden streak came down and smashed against the side of the house.
“Not bad.”
“Try for the window. Maybe she’ll look out if you hit it.”
I carefully picked out a potawatomi, one that was just a little green, a little harder than most of them. I wound up and put my weight into the throw. It hung in the sky, a second golden sun, and then flashed down.
“Oh, oh!”
The sound of the breaking glass was small and fragile. Reflected pieces of blue sky and of the yellow weeds that grew around the house dropped from the window frame, leaving a dark, jagged hole bordered with waving lace curtains.
We stood frozen, breathless, paralyzed by curiosity. A dark form moved in the broken window.
“Run!”
Rick and Kim turned and ran. I hesitated. The door opened, and in the time it took me to gulp a deep breath of air, I saw her, an old woman, thin, pale, and frightened.
I crashed into the sharp, black branches of the thicket. Potawatomis were crushed under my feet, making my footing slippery. I fell and scrambled, crawling out the other side of the trees, and then ran into a grain field, my heart pounding, the image of the old woman still in my mind.
The grain was bent down, showing the trail that Rick and Kim had made. I followed. Something caught my leg and I fell, tumbling. Rick and Kim were laying in the thick grain laughing.
“Great shot.”
“Got it on my first try,” I said, trying to forget the old woman.
Rick reached over and slapped me on the back.
“If your arm gets tired of patting yourself on the back, I’ll take over. You look like you saw a ghost. Did you see her?”
“No.”
“Do you think she saw us?”
“I doubt it.”
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got home that night. My father was waiting for me. He wasn’t smiling.
“Where have you been?”
I looked him in the eye brazenly.
“Nowhere.”
“It looks like you’ve been eating potawatomis.”
“Maybe.”
My shirt and pants had orange stains on them.
“There are some potawatomi trees down by Mrs. Gleaves’s, aren’t there?”
“I guess.” I knew I was caught.
“You broke Mrs. Gleaves’s window, didn’t you?”
“I … we …”
“Somebody saw you do it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
My heart was beating so hard now that it felt like a bird in a cage trying to get out. My legs were weak. It wasn’t that I was afraid of being punished. I was just embarrassed that I’d been caught.
My father, the muscles in his jaw flexed tight, watched me quietly for a few minutes.
“I don’t know what’s happening to you, Danny, throwing tomatoes at cars last week, letting that snake loose in the movie house, letting McLuhan’s sheep out during the Pioneer Days parade. You weren’t like this before. Ever since your—”
He stopped abruptly and looked away, silent. We’d never talked about it. It was never mentioned. He hadn’t cried during the funeral, not before and not after. He had just sat silent. After the funeral he’d taken everything that was hers and put it in boxes, taped them shut, and carried them to the basement. Everything about her he had taken and hidden. All that was left was the pain.
“You’re going to apologize to her.”
“No. I won’t.” This wasn’t the punishment I’d expected. I could still see the thin face and the white hair and the fear. It was too much. I couldn’t go back there and face her. I’d rather walk through the cemetery at night, alone. I knew he wouldn’t think much of having me walk through the cemetery at night for punishment, though.
“You can ground me for a month. I’ll sit in my room and I’ll only leave to go to school and church.”
“I don’t see that you have any choice.” His face hardened.
“I’ll rake all the leaves. I’ll clean the garden up.” I was getting desperate. “I’ll wash the dishes for two months.”
“I want you to go down there in the morning.”
“Three months.”
“I want you to tell her that you’ll replace the window and that you’ll help her with her yard work or any other work she needs done every Saturday for a month.”
“That’s too much for one window.”
“It takes a lot of good to make up for something bad. I’ll pick up the glass, and tomorrow after I get back from work, we’ll put it in. Tell Mrs. Gleaves we’re coming.”
It was early when my father dropped me off at the lane that led to Mrs. Gleaves’s house. My father smiled at me when I opened the car door to get out.
“Don’t forget to tell her we’ll be by to put the window in tonight.”
I closed the door, and he drove off leaving a thin vapor trail of dust hanging over the gravel road. I watched until the dust settled and the air was clear again. I kicked a furrow in the soft, dry earth and then started walking slowly toward the house. The fence posts and the trees that lined the lane cast long shadows. A rooster pheasant with his head ducked down ran across the road in front of me and then vanished into tall, yellow grass.
As I walked, I remembered vividly a story about two Mormon missionaries during the Mexican Revolution.
“Will you deny the truth?”
“No. Never.”
“Blindfold?”
“No. I don’t need one.”
I imagined walking bravely to the wall in front of the firing squad. I had reached the gate on the picket fence that surrounded Mrs. Gleaves’s house. I turned around and faced the firing squad. The guns exploded.
Mortally wounded I fell to the ground. I stood up again and looked at the gate. It couldn’t have been any worse for the missionaries to face the firing squad than what I had to do. I felt terrible. It wasn’t just that I felt bad about breaking the window. It was also that I’d been caught doing it.
I walked through the gate. The fence was gray with age and several pickets were broken. There was a large cottonwood tree in the front yard. The bark at the trunk and in spots on up the tree was the same gray color of the fence and was wrinkled like elephant skin. The tree was ancient looking. Everything about the yard looked old, neglected, forgotten.
To the left and in front of the house was the thicket of potawatomi trees sitting red and gold in the morning sunlight. In a direct line from the thicket was the broken window, a dark vacant hole surrounded by the sky and clouds. The house was made of square-cut logs that were fitted together and chinked with plaster. The wood was black-brown from years of exposure to the sun. It made the house look ominous.
I knocked on the door. From deep within the house something stirred, and then the house was silent again. A small wind came up, rustling the leaves that covered the grounds around the house. A few leaves drifted down from the cottonwood tree. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky. The steady sound of a thrasher working an unseen grain field could be heard in the distance.
Finally, after what seemed like several hours, the door opened a crack.
“Who is it?”
“Danny Anderson.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was distant and soft.
“I broke your window yesterday.”
“Window?”
“I broke your window yesterday. It was an accident.”
“Window.” The door closed a little.
“My father and I will come back tonight to fix it. And to pay for it, I’m supposed to do yard work for you.”
She opened the door a little more.
“I’ll be by on Saturday to do the work.”
She closed the door, and I backed off the porch.
That evening, after we finished replacing the window, my father went into Mrs. Gleaves’s house and talked to her while I waited outside.
“She’s expecting you on Saturday,” he said when he came out.
“She’s weird,” I said.
“She kind of withdrew into herself when her husband was killed in an accident. That was 20 years ago. I don’t think she’s been out of her house more than a couple of times since then.” My father was quiet the rest of the way home.
Saturday came too soon. She opened the door and handed me a small bucket.
“Fill it with potawatomis and bring it back to me.”
A few minutes later I handed her the bucket filled with the ripe plums. She took the bucket.
“You can rake the leaves.”
The leaves were almost half a foot deep and covered most of the yard. I’d finished my second pile when the most delicious aroma I’d ever smelled came from the house. It was the fragrance of bread baking and of something wonderfully sweet simmering. I had to rake harder to keep from thinking about it.
At about noon she came out onto the porch and waved to me to come over. She was carrying a plate with two three-inch thick slices of steaming homemade bread covered with melting butter and a golden-red jam. The aroma was indescribable.
She pointed to the porch steps with a hand that held a large glass of milk.
“Sit.”
She handed me the plate and sat down next to me. She watched me quietly as I savored the fragrance of the bread and then took a large bite. Hot homemade bread, fresh butter, hot homemade potawatomi jam—it was delicious. I smiled at her.
“It’s good.”
A smile cracked on her face and then faded. She turned and looked out at the yard.
“It looks awful now. No one has worked on it for a long time. It was once beautiful. We painted the fence every year.”
She pointed to the fence line.
“There were roses there, and in the back we had a garden. The best one in the valley. We had the biggest watermelon in the state once. It took first prize at the state fair. It was as long as you are. We had all of our friends here after the fair. We sat under that cottonwood and ate the melon.”
She sat silent for a long time looking at the yard. I finished the milk and set the glass down. I looked at the yard, trying to see what she was looking at. A small wind blew in short puffs stirring the leaves on the ground and starting more falling from the trees. The air was cool and smelled of fall, and the sun was bright and warm.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it was then,” she said. She wasn’t exactly talking to me.
“I’d better get back to work. My father will be here at 2:00.”
I stood and picked up the rake I’d leaned against the porch.
“Thanks for the bread and jam. I’ve never had potawatomi jam before.”
“It was John’s favorite. He planted the trees.”
That fall passed quickly. The following week while I chopped down the patches of tall yellow weeds and piled them, she made pie from apples I had picked from the tree that grew out behind the house. The week after that she made cookies filled with blueberries. I’m not sure when or why I started looking forward to Saturdays. I even enjoyed the work.
On the fifth Saturday my father came along to help. We brought paint that we had left over from painting our house. He repaired broken pickets while I painted. At noon Mrs. Gleaves brought out sandwiches and fresh-made doughnuts and milk. We sat underneath the old cottonwood tree while we ate. It was a cool day. The air was cold, but the sun was warm. Mrs. Gleaves had a sweater wrapped around her shoulders.
“It looks good,” she said. “The yard is looking real good.”
My father touched me on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Gleaves was my Sunday School teacher,” he said. Mrs. Gleaves laughed.
“That was a long time ago. Your wife was in the class too. She wasn’t your wife then, was she though?”
My father was silent. He kept eating like he hadn’t heard her.
“She had a temper, didn’t she? I remember we were building models of the city of Bethlehem out of Epsom salts one Sunday. I don’t remember what you did, but she got mad at you and dumped the whole bucket of salt on you right there in church.”
My father looked up laughing.
“I’d forgotten about that. She didn’t get angry very often but when she did. … When we were first married, I told her that the mashed potatoes she’d made were burnt. She picked up the bowl and walked over to me. She smiled and opened my shirt front and dumped the whole mess in. ‘You don’t have to eat them,’ she said.”
We all laughed. My father suddenly stopped. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. A tear streamed from an eye. My throat felt raw, like something was caught in it.
“She died, didn’t she?”
My father nodded, still looking down at his hands.
“I thought I remembered hearing that. It’s a hard thing.”
My father stood.
“I’ve got to be going,” he said. “Dan can finish with the painting.”
After he’d left, she said, “He took your mother’s death pretty hard, didn’t he?”
I nodded. She sat silent, looking at me.
“He’s lucky he has you.” She continued. “You’re a good boy.”
She stood up slowly, kneeling first and then bracing herself on the tree. My father had told me that she was at least 80 years old.
“John and I never had any children.” She looked up at the sky and held the sweater tight around her shoulder. “The snow will be here before next Saturday,” she said. “You’ve done good work with the yard. Thank you.”
She closed the door going into her house. I was alone. The air was growing even colder than it had been. The sky had clouded over and was a dark, slate color. The whole valley seemed to have darkened. I looked over at the potawatomi trees. Deep, deep inside of me a pain was swelling up. I walked over to the thicket. A covey of quail were feeding on the soft, overripe plums. They ran single file back into the thicket as I approached. The branches on the trees were dark, bare skeletons now. I reached down and picked up one of the plums. It smelled sweet and earthy.
I hadn’t helped my father. I looked at the window that reflected the dark clouds and the barren fields. I’d hurt him, maybe not intentionally, but just the same I’d hurt him. I’d been too busy feeling my own pain to help anyone, him or even myself.
The potawatomi squashed in my closed fist. The fragrant juice squeezed out between my fingers. I wiped my hands on my pants and went back to finish the fence.
The next week the fence looked good in the snow, white on white. A few leaves had fallen from the trees after the snow had come, coloring the white with gold. I helped Mrs. Gleaves bring coal in for her stove. I helped her with the coal and with her groceries the rest of that winter. Mr. Wilson was glad to have the help. He was getting old himself. And sometimes on particularly cold nights I would go to her house in the evenings and sit next to her old-fashioned stove, feeling the radiant warmth and talking, and sometimes my father came with me.

When President Monson was a young boy, his parents taught him to serve others. One Christmas, his mother asked him to choose one of his toys to give to a boy who had no gifts. And on Sundays, before his family ate their dinner, his mother had him deliver a plate of food to a neighbor who was in need. As President Monson got older, his desire to help others grew and grew.

I like it when it rains outside
And drops use windowpanes to slide.
I like it when I hear the sound
Of raindrops plopping on the ground.
And when it’s time to go to bed,
I hear the raindrops overhead
While Mother and I sit close in a chair
With a storybook we both can share.

Aunt Pearl began: “When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.

Walking slowly along the wet sand—hands in pockets and bare feet kicking the water that lapped at his toes—Guillermo (Gee-yer-mo) wished he had a present to welcome his friend Philip. Soon it would be time for Philip to arrive in Baja, California, after the trip with his family along the Oregon seacoast. Two years ago the two boys had been neighbors in Arizona. Will Philip be the same? he wondered. He was concerned that perhaps they wouldn’t still like the same things.
Guillermo stooped to pick up a flat, gray, roundish seashell almost hidden in the wet sand. It was a sand dollar! He turned it over in his hand with the feeling of awe and wonder he always felt when he thought about the legend of the shell. He slipped the shell into his jeans pocket as he heard the sound of his mother’s voice floating down from the bluff.
“Guillermo, it is time.”
He climbed the winding path up the bluff to their red brick home at the top and opened the heavy wooden door to enter a cool, tile-bordered room.
“Hurry, Guillermo, and help me set the table,” urged his mother. “Philip’s parents will want their lunch so they can be on their way to Cabo San Lucas. How nice that Philip can stay with you for a whole week!”
Guillermo had just finished putting a bright cloth on the table and had changed into a clean T-shirt when he heard a car pull into the yard.
“Here they are,” said his mother. “Tell Papa.”
“Papa, they’re here!” called Guillermo. Then he hurried outside, one hand in his pocket.
A red-haired boy ran toward him with a package in his hand.
“Hola (hello), Guillermo, como está usted (how are you)?”
“I’m fine, Philip,” Guillermo replied.
“I’ve been practicing Spanish,” his friend explained. “Look what I brought you.” He shoved the package into Guillermo’s hand and said excitedly, “Open it, OK?”
Guillermo opened the package. Inside was a plastic flying saucer.
“Muchas gracias, Felipe (many thanks, Philip),” he said, grinning.
Again he wished he had a welcoming gift for Philip. Then he remembered the sand dollar he had picked up. He put his hand into his pocket and drew out the flat seashell.
“I have a present for you, too, Philip. I’m sorry it isn’t wrapped.”
“I’ve never seen a shell like this before,” said Philip. “What is it?”
“It’s a sand dollar. However, some people call it a keyhole urchin. It’s found on the Gulf coast and Atlantic coast. After dinner let’s go to my room and I’ll tell you about it.”
Later when they reached his bedroom, Guillermo opened a shoe box on his dresser and took out a dry, sun-bleached sand dollar. “The legend,” Guillermo began, “says that this shell tells the story of the birth and death of Jesus.”
“How can a sand dollar do that?” asked Philip.
Guillermo pointed to the shell in his hand.
“The markings show up better on this dry shell than on yours. See, on the back there’s an Easter lily. In the center of it is the tracing of the star that guided the wise men to the Christ child.”
Guillermo turned the shell over. “Here on the other side are the markings of the Christmas poinsettia. In the middle are five holes, representing the wounds in Jesus’ body when He was crucified.”
“Wow!” said Philip, “that’s interesting.” Then, looking closely at the holes, he thought of something else and asked, “How does the shell move?”
“When it’s alive it’s covered with brown, hair-like spines, and it moves with them. It’s an animal like the starfish.” Guillermo pointed to a small hole in the bottom of the shell. “It takes food in through here.” He handed the shell to Philip. “Here, shake it,” he suggested to his friend.
Guillermo watched as Philip gently shook the shell and sand fell out.
“What’s inside, more sand?” asked Philip.
“No. Hold out your hand. Now watch.”
Guillermo broke open the sand dollar and out dropped several tiny white wing-like objects.
“They’re like folded butterflies made of ivory or bone!” Philip exclaimed.
“The legend says they are the white doves that spread goodwill and peace,” Guillermo explained.
“That’s really neat,” said Philip. “Can we look for more sand dollars on the beach?”
“Sure, Philip. Did you know that some women wear pendants of gold cast from real sand dollars? Other people thread sand dollars on strings and use them for wind chimes.”
“I can make a chime for my mother!” said Philip excitedly. “Or maybe I could make her a necklace for Christmas. Boy, Guillermo, I’m so glad I came!”

The enthusiastic young people of the Cleveland First Ward, Huntington Utah Stake treated the senior citizens in their ward to a Red Carpet Honor Night. The Young Men, dressed in suits and ties, first delivered an invitation to each home. Then on the night of the activity, they served as chauffeurs and escorts; they drove to each home, rolled out the red carpet, and escorted their guests to the meetinghouse. There they seated the elderly members of their ward and served them a delicious meal prepared by the Young Women.
After dinner, the senior ward members were seated in a semicircle at the front of the auditorium. They were each given an opportunity to tell how they arrived in the community, what life was like when they were growing up, and how they met their companions. They also answered questions from the audience, offered several good words of advice to the youth, and thanked them for a wonderful evening.

The Mia Maids in the Anchorage Eighth Ward, Anchorage Alaska Stake, turned Halloween into a money-making activity by selling ghost insurance to ward members and friends. If an insuree’s home or car became the target of a prank like soaped windows, splattered eggs, or toilet papering, the Mia Maids cleaned up the results of the Halloween tricks.
With the money they earned, they are helping to support a missionary from their ward.

Quentin L. Cook(76) An invitation from President Gordon B. Hinckley helps lead Elder O. Vincent Haleck’s father to baptism.

A testimony of the reality of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ is a source of both hope and determination. And it can be so for any child of God. It was for me on a summer day in June 1969 when my mother died, it has been all the years since, and it will be until I see her again.
Sadness from the temporary separation was immediately replaced with happiness. It was more than a hope for a happy reunion. Because the Lord has revealed so much through His prophets and because the Holy Ghost has confirmed the truth of the Resurrection to me, I can see in my mind what it will be like to be reunited with our sanctified and resurrected loved ones:
“These are they who shall come forth in the resurrection of the just. …
“These are they whose names are written in heaven, where God and Christ are the judge of all.
“These are they who are just men made perfect through Jesus the mediator of the new covenant, who wrought out this perfect atonement through the shedding of his own blood” (D&C 76:65, 68–69).
Because Jesus Christ broke the bands of death, all of the children of Heavenly Father born into the world will be resurrected in a body that will never die. So my testimony and yours of that glorious truth can take away the sting of the loss of a beloved family member or friend and replace it with joyful anticipation and firm determination.
The Lord has given all of us the gift of resurrection, whereby our spirits are placed in bodies free of physical imperfections (see Alma 11:42–44). My mother will appear young and radiant, the effects of age and years of physical suffering removed. That will come to her and to us as a gift.
But those of us who long to be with her forever must make choices to qualify for that association, to live where the Father and His Beloved resurrected Son dwell in glory. That is the only place where family life can continue eternally. A testimony of that truth has increased my determination to qualify myself and those I love for the highest degree of the celestial kingdom through the Atonement of Jesus Christ working in our lives (see D&C 76:70).

As time went on, being surrounded by the normalcy of others drinking alcohol made it difficult for me to keep my standards. Going to pubs with clients and coworkers was a regular circumstance I would find myself in. I grew tired of having to explain myself when I turned down a drink, and sometimes I just wanted to fit in.
But beyond wanting to fit in, I wanted to be an example of a disciple of Jesus Christ, so I learned a few ways to help me resist temptation:
I prayed for strength each morning to make good decisions.
I often listened to conference talks or hymns on my way to work.
I kept my favorite scripture taped to my bathroom mirror to read each day: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things” (Alma 26:12).
I enlisted the help of my closest coworkers, asking them to support me when others would offer me “just one drink.” They could tell when I was feeling uncomfortable and would kindly jump in and order me a “sparkling water on the rocks” to help me avoid feeling awkward during these gatherings.
I worked with many other religious individuals who had similar morals. There were a few practicing Muslims whom I bonded with, and we often sat together during work functions so we could have strength in numbers. Surrounding myself with like-minded people who respected my standards helped me immensely (see Ecclesiastes 4:9–10).
I strove to focus on my baptismal covenant to “always remember Him” (see Doctrine and Covenants 20:77, 79), which helped me feel the Spirit more abundantly. I had promised to follow God and be a disciple of Christ, and seeking to always remember the Savior helped me keep an eternal and infinite perspective in the most finite moments of temptation.

There was one time when I found a card that proved to be particularly meaningful for me. I was having a very difficult time and had been praying for help quite a bit. It was during this time that I found a card from my dad. The card read, “We’re praying for you, Justin. Keep up the good work. Love, Dad.” It gave me a taste of home that I missed, and the encouragement from my dad helped me to keep working hard.
As I thought about how grateful I was to my dad, I realized that my Father in Heaven had also had a hand in sending me this message. It had come at the perfect time, when I needed it most. I was then reminded of the talk by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles from the April 2005 general conference about the tender mercies of the Lord and how God leaves us little reminders throughout our lives to tell us that He loves us (see “The Tender Mercies of the Lord,” Ensign, May 2005, 99). These “business cards” from Him brighten our smiles and strengthen our faith.

With my boss’s encouragement, I joined the Puurai Ward in Tahiti at the beginning of 2024. There, I was welcomed by kind and always-smiling members. It became my place of refuge every Sunday. The more I attended, the more I felt our Heavenly Father’s love grow stronger. That’s when I started to seriously rethink my priorities in life.
Of course, we need a job and income to live, but I was beginning to feel emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted. That’s when my bishop told me about Sister Tararaina Mana, a service missionary and career coach in our ward. He said I could meet with her if I wished. I was immediately interested. I was at a turning point and no longer knew what to do.
On Sunday, 2 June 2024, I had my first coaching session with her. That first meeting was very different from what I expected. I thought it would be like school orientation where you pick a career based on your degrees, but it was so much more! For the first time, someone asked me questions that were truly about me. Beyond my academic background, my coach focused on my needs, my expectations—simply put, on me.
We started exercises that I didn’t quite understand at first. We began with my “Whys.” Thanks to that exercise, I started thinking deeply about my goals and my life vision. I rediscovered myself. I learned to listen to myself, to know myself, to trust myself. I realized I had forgotten who I was. I had let myself be consumed by temporal needs and society’s expectations.
Society imposes a model on us: studies, diploma, great job, house, car, then family. It sounds simple, tut reality is much harsher. Fear, doubt, and anxiety about basic needs had taken over my spiritual growth.

Several years later, after I was married, I gazed into the eyes of my firstborn child and knew I had to take the next step toward participating fully in the gospel that had taught me parents can be with their children forever. My husband, not yet an active member, understood and supported my decision to return to the Church. I finally committed myself to full activity, and with that has come a deepened relationship with our Heavenly Father and an appreciation for the Book of Mormon.

At conference my family and I label candy bowls with words like faith, temple, and prayer. When we hear one of the words, we can take candy from its bowl. These words help me think of Jesus and listen to the talks.
Jane C., age 6, Quebec, Canada