Gospel Story Finder

Grandma was a naturally happy person. She was positive in her outlook and very social in her love for other people. Yet as a young mother she knew deep sorrow. Tragedy struck twice–first with the death of little, Hawaiian-born Barbara, their firstborn child, and then later with the untimely death of another little daughter, Helen Margaret. Grandma tells in intermittent journal entries a few details about the circumstances and her feelings about the deaths of these two little girls. She says about 6-year-old Barbara:

“Oh, the whole thing is such a horrible nightmare. On January 30 Mother stayed out here and [Barbara] was very sick, so the next morning we took her in, intending to go right to the hospital, but [the doctor] advised us not to so we stayed at Mother’s. . . The next day we went to the doctor and . . . he was very reassuring. . . . She seemed so much improved. However after dinner she began going delirious and by 5 o’clock was right out of her head. The last word she ever said was “That’s all.” When I think of that night I turn cold, for dear little Babs nearly died. . . she was taken to the hospital immediately. . . five nights I spent at the hospital. She never regained consciousness and it was pitiful to watch her. Tuesday she nearly died again, but rallied. They got meningitis serum in her and she seemed better. . . . It first helped but Saturday she became worse, and Saturday night she was gone. When she was gone there was no hope, but before I had never given up hope. I just felt at first like I couldn’t stand to live without her, but when I saw Ed (her husband and my grandpa) and the boys I knew I would have to live for them.

“It is now nearly two months after and oh, my heart just aches. I sometimes think I am unequal to the task of going on without her. I am sure I couldn’t have stood it if Ed and the kiddies and everyone hadn’t been so nice. Oh, but I loved Babs and miss her so. Little would anyone dream from the outside appearances just how lonesome I am for my darling.” (Journal of Alma Eliza Cannon Winder, in family’s possession).

When I read this journal, my heart also aches. But I feel Grandma’s great inner strength as she carries on and continues to care for her other family members in the midst of her sorrow. Giving that needed service was actually crucial in helping her cope with her sadness.

For me, my greatest mentor happens to be my mom. She will be turning 80 years old this year. She is a woman of few words and one that knew how to train up children to work and be self-reliant. She raised all twelve of us children to live the Chamorro value of “fan afao maolek yan fan aayuda” translated it means to get along and help each other. She is the very reason why I learned to get along with people and why I am who I am. This Chamorro philosophy coupled with gospel teachings has benefited my life’s journey thus far.

Growing up in Guam, I was your typical teenager. Let me elaborate. My father retired early from his government job as a gantry operator at Guam’s Commercial Port. He took on farming to help grow his large family of twelve children. To help subsidize the food at home, he would go fishing. One day, my father came home with a huge catch of reef fish which he caught using his one-man fishing net. At our home in Guam, we have an outside kitchen with a galley-size sink. The sink was a couple feet deep and proved to be very difficult to work from being that I am only five feet in height. I happened to be having a bad teenage attitude that day and the tall but deep sink plus the big catch didn’t help any. I was grumbling about all the fish I had to scale and clean up. At first I was just angry why I had to be the one to clean the fish. Where were the boys? Couldn’t they clean it? All my bellyaching didn’t render me aid. By this time, I had cleaned three fish and had another twenty to go. My mom and dad were just quiet and went about other things. Then it came into my mind, “I should be grateful.” My father caught enough fish to last a couple of meals. I knew then to set aside my selfishness and think of the blessing of the big catch and the mouths it will end up feeding. The instant I applied what the Apostle Paul said that by love serve one another; my burden was lifted and my work in scaling and cleaning the fish became light.

In other words, to always abound in good works requires a heart filled with love for others.

The Cantos’ fifth child, Pedrito, was born in a clinic in Quevedo, high in the Andes Mountains near the equator. The boy seemed normal at first, but after two days his bowels had not yet purged their prenatal waste and he was screaming with pain.

His alarmed parents dared not wait even until morning to seek the advice of a specialist, for sudden death had already claimed two of their other children. At three months, Nancy Julema, their third child, had died of an unknown illness. Two years later, their fourth child, one-year-old Juan Carlos, had died of bronchial pneumonia in the arms of his mother on the way to medical help in Guayaquil, Ecuador. The heartbroken mother had gotten off the bus at the next town, but no bus or taxi driver would give her passage back home with the dead child. Finally, in desperation, she had pretended that the child was asleep and hitchhiked a ride part way on a gas truck and then on to Quevedo in a private car.

So, fearing the worst, Pedro Cantos wrapped his newborn son in a blanket, kissed his wife good-bye, and left by taxi for Guayaquil, 175 miles away. As the miles widened between them, the hearts of the parents were as one as they prayed for the life of this child.

When father and son finally arrived at the hospital, the doctors quickly diagnosed the problem as a congenital bowel obstruction, and they immediately made a surgical opening into the colon for drainage.

After three days Pedrito was out of immediate danger. His father returned home to Quevedo, borrowed some money to help pay for the treatment in Guayaquil, and sent his wife back to the hospital to be with their sick baby.

Nancy Cantos and her baby son remained in Guayaquil a month—a sorrowful month for the family. They were given little hope for Pedrito’s recovery, and they didn’t know how or where they could get more money for his care.
Although Pedrito finally grew well enough to come home, he remained ill and feverish. He cried out in pain, unable to sleep or eat. Only forced feedings kept him alive.
At three months, he suffered a severe heart attack. The Cantos then learned that their baby had a serious congenital heart defect. With open-heart surgery he might recover; without surgery he could not possibly live beyond age ten.
And he would always be ill.
Open-heart surgery! But that would cost thousands of dollars. It was impossible!
The saddened parents returned home with their baby. They faced a constant struggle to keep him alive. One day he would seem a bit better; the next day he would be worse again. They had to take him to Guayaquil every two or three weeks for medication and treatment—a financial hardship on their limited income.
In the meantime, they prayed constantly. And their answer came in a dream.
One night when Pedrito was almost ten months old, Nancy dreamed that she saw through her kitchen window—instead of the usual array of crowded buildings—a beautiful, spacious lawn extending as far as she could see. In the distance a man was digging in the earth. She approached him and asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m planting herbs to cure the illnesses of man,” he replied.
Then Nancy saw an unusual tree nearby. “What is the purpose of that tree?” she asked.
“The tree holds the cure for Pedrito’s illness,” replied the stranger.
“Tell me,” she asked eagerly, “how can I give the tree’s medicine to my child?”
Before the stranger could answer, Nancy saw a man in the distance, standing at the window of a house, looking at her. Immediately he and another man, both dressed in white, left the house and approached her.
Frightened, Nancy ran trembling into her own house and bolted the door. They came to her barred window, looked in at her, and asked, “Why are you afraid?”
“Because—because I’m here alone with my sick child.”
“But do you not know that bolted doors and barred windows cannot keep us out?” they asked kindly. “We were sent by God to help you because of your faith and your diligence in studying the Bible and seeking the word of God.”
Instantly they were inside the house, and Nancy woke up.
The dream remained vivid in Nancy’s thoughts, yet she told no one.
A week later, two missionaries knocked on the Cantos’s door. That evening they gave Nancy, Pedro, and their two older sons, Cesar and Fernando, the first discussion.
Before they left, the elders gave the family a Book of Mormon, after first marking for them the passages they had been discussing about Christ’s visit to America. They also felt inspired to underline the passages relating to Lehi’s dream about the tree of life—something they had never done before.
Later, as Nancy Cantos read the account of Lehi’s dream, she became excited. It was so similar to her own! She knew in her heart that this was the answer to their prayers.
Eagerly she read the passages to her husband and told him about her dream. He, too, believed this was their answer. “If we obey God’s commandments and hold to the iron rod, our baby will be healed,” he told his wife.
The Cantos could hardly wait for the next discussion.
One night when the elders came to the Cantos home, Pedrito was unusually ill. The elders felt prompted to discuss the principle of priesthood administrations. The family eagerly sought a blessing for Pedrito, who was so thin you could see the bones under his skin. Up until then, he had been unable to tolerate any food except milk. He could neither walk nor talk, and he rarely slept more than an hour or two at a time.
The elders administered to the child and left the house with a strong feeling that he would recover.
From that time on, Pedrito began to improve. The Cantos family were baptized, and the welfare services missionaries helped Sister Cantos get Pedrito started on solid foods. He began to gain weight, and for the first time in his life, he slept through the night. He also learned to walk and talk. The frequent, costly trips to Guayaquil were no longer necessary.
Then, suddenly, Pedrito became ill again. His temperature was dangerously high, and his parents took him back to Guayaquil. The doctors told them that he would have to remain in the hospital at least five days. They also told the Cantos that if Pedrito were to live, he would have to undergo open-heart surgery right away.
But to everyone’s surprise, Pedrito was well enough to leave the hospital the next day.
Back in Quevedo, the welfare services missionaries helped the Cantos apply for help with the cost of the surgery. The doctors told the Cantos that they would have to go to the United States or Brazil for the surgery. But a member of the Church, who had recently had a family member operated on for a similar problem, told them about another doctor—Dr. Oswald Bonilla, a heart specialist in nearby Quito.
Although his calendar was full for several months, Dr. Bonilla agreed to see Pedrito in two weeks. But complications kept Dr. Bonilla from seeing Pedrito immediately. Sister Cantos had been taking a tailoring class so that she could earn money to help pay some of their medical bills. As the day for the appointment with Dr. Bonilla approached, she learned that her final examination was scheduled for the same day.
Dr. Bonilla graciously postponed the appointment for another two weeks. This time, a bus strike kept them from meeting with him. Finally, after six weeks, they stood before Dr. Bonilla.
Electrocardiograms, x-rays, and many other tests revealed that Pedrito was too weak to endure surgery. “It will take at least eight or nine months to build him up sufficiently,” Dr. Bonilla told the worried parents. The doctor ordered another series of tests.
Three days later, just before Pedrito was taken in for the new tests, two young men in white shirts and dark suits told Dr. Bonilla, “We would like to give the child a blessing.”
“You have five minutes,” the doctor said, and he left the room.
Later that afternoon he whistled in amazement. The test results showed such a remarkable improvement in Pedrito that Dr. Bonilla decided to schedule the surgery immediately.
“It was worse than we thought,” Dr. Bonilla told the parents and the elders and sisters who had waited with them during the five anguish-filled hours of the surgery. “You keep praying, though, and Pedrito will live.”
Pedrito did live. He recovered rapidly. Soon he was running and playing like any other little boy. And Pedrito’s struggle for life has wrought other miracles. Dr. Bonilla and his assistant, Dr. Lopez, were touched by this display of faith and by the miracle they saw when the elders administered to Pedrito. They decided not to charge for the surgery.
Many of Sister Cantos’s family have accepted the gospel, and members of Brother Cantos’s family are anxiously waiting for the missionaries to come to a remote area where they live so that they, too, can be taught the gospel.

Later, as I was about to graduate from the university, I fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Jeanene Watkins. I thought she was beginning to have some deep feelings for me also. One night when we were talking about the future, she carefully wove into the discussion a statement that changed my life forever. She said, “When I marry, it will be to a faithful returned missionary in the temple.”
I hadn’t thought much about a mission before then. That night my motivation to consider missionary service changed dramatically. I went home, and I could think of nothing else. I was awake all night long. I was completely distracted from my studies the next day. After many prayers I made the decision to meet with my bishop and begin my missionary application.
Jeanene never asked me to serve a mission for her. She loved me enough to share her conviction and then gave me the opportunity to work out the direction of my own life. We both served missions and later were sealed in the temple. Jeanene’s courage and commitment to her faith have made all the difference in our lives together. I am certain we would not have found the happiness we enjoy without her strong faith in the principle of serving the Lord first. She is a wonderful, righteous example!

Another brother, Craig (7), is known as a hero at the local elementary school because he donated half his birthday money to a fund-raising activity for victims in New York and Washington, D.C. Craig was also a hero in preschool when he had the courage to invite his teacher to the open house of the Louisville Kentucky Temple (Louisville is just across the river from Jeffersonville). Both the teacher and her husband attended. “She said it was beautiful,” Craig remembers.

Andrea had been saving money from her paper route and her allowance for a long time. She wanted to get a CD player for her mom for Mother’s Day. She knew her mom would love listening to music in the kitchen while she worked. Finally, after paying tithing, Andrea had saved $20. With this money she hoped to find a great deal on a good secondhand CD player.

Andrea knew Mom wouldn’t mind if it was secondhand, because Mom was always happy to find “great deals” and “the best bargains” at the store. Mom would be proud to know that Andrea was trying to get the most for her money too.

The Saturday before Mother’s Day, Andrea was excited to find a CD player at her friend Robin’s neighborhood yard sale.

“How much?” Andrea asked.

“Fifteen dollars,” Robin said.

Fifteen dollars! That meant Andrea would have five dollars left over for a fancy gift box and a card.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “But can you keep it here for me? I’ll need to sneak it home later, after my mom leaves for her hair appointment.”

“No problem,” Robin said. “I’ll put a ‘sold’ sign on it, and you can pay me when you pick it up.”

Andrea walked home smiling and humming to herself. What a good bargain shopper she was! Mom would be so proud.

Then Andrea saw another yard sale. Maybe she could find a great deal here on wrapping paper or ribbon. As she looked at the sale tables, another CD player caught her eye. This one was almost the same as the one sold by Robin—except the sign on this one read “$5.”

Five dollars! That was a better bargain than the first one. Andrea couldn’t believe her good luck. By spending only five dollars she’d have enough money left over to buy not only a fancy gift box and card but also the choir CD her mom liked so much. Mom would be twice as proud of her for finding this great deal.

Quickly Andrea bought the CD player and carried it home. By now Mom was gone, so Andrea hid it in her closet. She happily called Robin to tell her she didn’t need her CD player anymore. Robin didn’t say much.

Soon after Andrea hung up, the phone rang. It was Robin calling back.

“What you did isn’t fair,” Robin said. “Lots of people wanted my CD player but I told them it was sold to you. Now our yard sale is over and I can’t sell it. You broke your promise to me, and that’s not nice.”

After Robin hung up, Andrea sat in stunned silence. At first she felt mad. “How dare Robin talk to me like that?” she thought. “It’s my hard-earned money and I can do whatever I want with it.” Besides, getting the best deal was the most important thing, wasn’t it?

Then Andrea started feeling bad. Robin was right, she realized. Andrea had broken her agreement. While Andrea had gotten a better deal, Robin got no deal at all.

Andrea said a prayer for courage, took a deep breath, and dialed Robin’s phone number.

“You’re right,” she blurted out as soon as she heard Robin’s voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay you the money I promised, but you can keep the CD player. Maybe at another yard sale you can sell it to someone else. Is that OK?”

Now it was Robin’s turn to be stunned. Finally she responded: “That’s OK. You don’t have to pay me. I just remembered someone else who wanted it. I’ll give her a call. Thanks, though. I really appreciate it. See you at school, Andrea.”

When Andrea hung up, she gave a prayer of thanks that she was able to do the right thing. She knew it was the right thing because now she felt good inside. She was glad she had gotten a great deal on the CD player, but she was even happier that she had strengthened a friendship and learned to have integrity. That was the best bargain of all—one that would make her mother truly proud.

It began as an ordinary day, for the most part. Dad, who was a professor at Texas Tech University, was coming home from California, where he had been for a conference. He called Mother to come and pick him up at the airport. So she loaded my two littlest brothers and me into the little Volkswagen and headed to the airport. It was about a half-hour drive, so it didn’t take us very long to get there.
Once we were there, Mother sent me in to find Daddy. She gave me specific instructions as to where my father would be. But being ten years old, my mind was on other things, and I didn’t listen very well. I went into the airport searching very diligently for the walking sidewalk my friend had told me was there. Of course I wanted to see my father, but how often do you get to ride a walking sidewalk? After about 15 minutes, I decided I had better find Daddy so Mother wouldn’t be angry; I abandoned the walking sidewalk. My memory did not come to my rescue, and I couldn’t remember where Mother had said to find Daddy. I looked and looked but all to no avail, no Daddy. I returned to the car to tell Mother of my bad fortune, which she was not very happy about. She gave me a quarter and told me to go call home to see if Daddy had gone home in a cab. I let the phone ring about three times, and then I spotted him. I ran to him calling, “Daddy-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye!” He picked me up and twirled me around. I told him about all the things that had gone on while he had been away. When we got to the car, we faced a not so happy mother, who had waited for an hour in the passenger loading zone and did not feel very well. Daddy was an even-tempered man, and as we drove home he tried to settle Mother down enough to talk. Meanwhile, I felt very responsible for starting the whole thing. I began to say something, but I never finished my sentence. I was interrupted by Mother’s scream, and I turned to see a car headed straight for ours.
I woke to find myself covered with blood, sitting in two or three inches of broken glass. David and Russell were trying to awaken my parents. I warned them not to shake them, as I was afraid they would be injured further. The scene was too much for me to handle and I passed out.
I don’t remember how I got out of the car. One side was smashed in, and the windows were too little for me to fit through. I sat in the middle of the street with my brothers standing by my side and what seemed like a hundred people gathered around me. People trying to stop the bleeding, people trying to calm us down, people taking pictures, and people just standing there watching us. All of this was very annoying to me. Where were my parents? Who was helping them?
Before long two ambulances arrived. I was put into the front seat, and the attendant tried to console me. That ride to the hospital was the longest ride I had ever made. When we finally got to the hospital, I had lost a great amount of blood and I passed out going through the emergency doors.
I was living a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up. I kept wanting to shut off the T.V. or change the channel. I couldn’t make sense of the whole situation. I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I lay in a bed for three days, quietly wondering if I was going to live. I constantly asked about my parents, but no one seemed to know how they were. I had several visitors, including my grandparents and my dad’s sister from California. I wondered why they had all come. How serious was the accident? Then I realized they had come for a reason. The reason wasn’t me but my parents. Finally, I pulled as much courage together as I could and asked about my parents one more time. This time, I got my answer.
My grandparents were in my room when I asked, and instead of the pause I usually received after the question, they began to cry. Slowly and carefully they told me that my parents were dead. They had been warned not to tell me because of my serious physical condition. Any word about the death might have had a great impact on me psychologically. I cried very quietly, for I think I had known long before it was verbalized.
I missed the funeral in Texas because my condition was too unstable for the doctor to allow my release. My grandmother and I flew to Utah for the final services and burial. The doctor had released me on condition I would be very careful in my activities. My relatives made sure I was very careful. I missed several outings and I felt very alone.
When things finally began to settle, we all had to take a step back and look at our lives. Five children without parents. We all wondered how we would survive the terrible ordeal. We had so many questions and so few answers. We were lost without our guides. Even our loving grandparents could not take away the pain. It was something we would have to deal with each in our own way.
As I look back, I realize my life has gone in stages: first of living without them, then of anger towards my Heavenly Father, then of accepting their death, then of coping by myself without looking continually to them. I look at it, not so much as a very tragic time in my life but as a learning time.
I have learned that I am loved by my Heavenly Father, for he has given me many blessings in my life. Even the death of my parents has been a blessing in a way. I had never realized how much I really loved them until they were gone. Now I try to be appreciative of the things I have instead of waiting until I don’t have them.
I live each day of my life wondering if I am good enough to be with them again. So I strive for excellence, as though it were possible. Then maybe someday I will be able to run to my dad calling, “Daddy-ye-ye-ye-ye!”

A veteran airline pilot may no longer be flying, but that won’t stop him from ministering to others on the ground.
On April 1 of 2024, Air Marshall Islands (AMI) held a surprise ceremony for Captain Albon “Al” Jelke at Amata Kabua International Airport in Majuro to commemorate his final flight as chief pilot for the national airline.
Brother Jelke, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was the longest-serving pilot in AMI’s history, with over 43 years of flight service. US Federal Aviation Administration regulations prevent pilots above 65 from flying commercially, a milestone Brother Jelke reached in April. He will remain with AMI as general manager, a post he’s held for over two years.
Strong emotions were displayed by his fellow employees at the ceremony on April 1, including president of the Marshall Islands, Hilda Heine, who honored Brother Jelke for his commitment and service. The admiration expressed by AMI employees and people on social media attests to his friendly nature and dedication.
“I’ve retired from flying but as the CEO/general manager of Air Marshall Islands, I can still fly as a passenger and minister to my people,” Brother Jelke said. “It just won’t be as frequent as when I was a pilot.”

The Hunk. That’s what his friends called him. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt; his blonde, naturally wavy hair curled back from his tanned, intelligent forehead; and his teeth dazzled when he turned to smile. When he walked by, girls oohed and whispered in admiration and the guys backed up in awe.
Today would be the Hunk’s day of glory. Single-handedly he would sweep the state track tournament, bringing in dozens of trophies for Riverview High, along with numerous offers of scholarships to prestigious colleges for him. Then, on to the Olympics where he’d have gold medals draped over his muscular chest and crowds cheering and calling his name.
“Dexter! Dexter!” called his mother. “Pay attention or you’ll be late for seminary. Julie is out honking for you, and I need you to bring in some more sugar from the storeroom before you go.”
Dexter looked up at his mother, who was canning pears, and pushed a straight, dark lock of hair away from his glasses. He grabbed a sack of sugar, but it was too heavy to carry, so he set it on the floor, then scooted it across to where his mother stood by the stove. He grabbed his books, then ran out to where Julie, a classmate and neighbor, was waiting in her family’s beat-up station wagon.
Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.
The youth genealogy class had started. Sister Barton had handed out pedigree charts. The Hunk walked in, arms loaded with notebooks and files.He dropped them before her and stated, “This is my genealogy research. I have recently added 15,000 names after having mastered 12 foreign languages. Notice the coat of arms and the royal lines that run throughout. And I have revolutionized data gathering using my new program. This computer disk now contains four million new names I’ve researched.”
As he drew the disk from his briefcase and casually dropped it before the instructor, the class gasped in amazement, and Sister Barton, hands to her face, stared in awe and reverence.
“Dexter, Dexter,” Sister Barton’s voice pierced his mind. “Here’s your family group sheet. Now put down what you can.”
Dexter replied, “I don’t even know where my grandfather was born,” as he pushed the sheet away.
“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

I was attending a stake conference where I was to interview some prospective missionaries. Before one boy came in the room, the stake president said to me, “Now here is a boy who has just come through a serious experience. He is just out of the service. He suffered shell shock; you had better talk carefully to him and make sure that he is prepared to go.”
So as I talked with him, I said, “Now, why do you want to go on this mission, son? Are you sure that you want to go, really, after all this harrowing experience?”
He sat thoughtfully for a few moments and then replied: “Brother Lee, I had never been away from home before I went into the service. When I arrived in the military camps, every waking hour I heard filthy, profane language. I found myself losing a certain pure-mindedness, and I sought God in prayer to give me the strength not to fall into that terrible habit. God heard my prayer and gave me strength. Then we went through the training, and it was arduous, and I asked him to give me physical strength to go through, and he did. He heard my prayer, but as we moved up towards the fighting lines and I heard the booming of the guns and the crackling of the rifles—and sometimes as we crouched down in our shell holes, it just seemed that if I put a finger up it would be shot off so intense was the fighting—I was afraid. I would lie there just waiting, and I prayed to God to give me the courage to do the task that I was there to do, and the Lord heard my prayer and gave me courage. Then they sent me up with an advance patrol to search out the enemy and to radio back to the reinforcements, telling them where to attack. Sometimes the enemy would almost hedge me around until I was cut off, and it seemed that there was no escape and that surely my life would be taken. I asked the only source of protection to guide me safely back, and God heard my prayers. Time and again through the most harrowing experiences he led me back.
“Now,” he said, “Brother Lee, I am back home. And I would like to say thanks to that power to which I prayed—God, our Heavenly Father.” And then he said, “My purpose in going out on a mission is to teach others that faith that I was taught in my Sunday School, in my seminary, in my priesthood class, in my home. I want to teach others so that they will have that same strength that guided me through this difficult experience.”

Let me add this particular story to show what I’m trying to illustrate. In World War II, in 1943, the SS Dorchester, a troop ship, was torpedoed with 900 souls on board in the North Atlantic in wintertime. Those who didn’t have time to get into the lifeboats would not survive. It went down so fast that only two hundred and fifty or so survived. It was evident that not everyone was going to be able to get into the lifeboats. There were four chaplains on board: a Jewish rabbi, a Catholic priest, and two Protestant ministers. The witnesses, the survivors, said the chaplains were seen helping others into the lifeboats and then they were seen linking their arms together, the four of them bowing their heads in prayer, as the ship went under, united in prayer. There’s a chapel today in Philadelphia, built in honor of those four chaplains. The motto of the chapel is “Unity without uniformity.” That’s a lofty spiritual goal, I think, for all of us.

One final story—once again from when I was a bishop. One night, while I was in a sound sleep, the doorbell rang. I stumbled to answer it and found a young member of my priests quorum at the door. I knew him well—well enough to have gone on outings with him, to have prayed with and about him, and to have taught him. I knew him as well as a good bishop knows any active eighteen-year-old priest, which was well enough for me to ask what he was doing at my front door in the middle of the night.
He said, “I have to talk to you, bishop. I’ve just done something serious, and I can’t go home.”
He was right. It was serious. I invited him in, and we talked. He talked and I listened, then I talked and he listened, until dawn. He had many questions. He had committed a terrible sin. He wanted to know if there was hope. He wanted to know how to repent. He wanted to know if repentance included telling his parents. He wanted to know if there was any chance of his going on a mission. He wanted to know many other things.
I didn’t have all of the answers, but I told him there was hope. I told him the way back would be difficult, but it was possible. I explained what I knew about the process of repentance and helped him see what he must do. I told him if he really wanted to go on a mission that that decision could only be made in the future after he had repented. Then I told him to go home, and he did.
He made his peace with his parents. He asked forgiveness from those he had wronged. He put sin and bad company behind him and did everything he could to repent.
A year or so later, five young men from that quorum went on missions. He was one of them. I was close to them all. I attended each of their farewells. They all served honorable missions. Within a brief time after returning home, they all were married in the temple. My wife and I attended each of the ceremonies. I could take a piece of paper, even today, and write their names and the names of their wives and some of their children. That is how well I knew them.
But now let me tell you something—something very private and very important. I cannot remember the name of the young man who came to my home in the middle of the night. I know he was one of the five, but I don’t remember which one.
There was a time I used to worry about that. I thought perhaps my memory might be failing. I consciously tried to recall who it was that had the problem, but I could not.
I was eventually released, and I put the entire incident out of my mind. On a late evening walk some years later, I found myself in the ward where I had once been bishop. The shadowy quiet brought back many memories. I was deep in thought when I realized I was walking in front of a house where one of my priests had lived years before. Suddenly, the story of the young man I have mentioned came to mind, and again I tried to remember which of the five he had been. Had he lived in that house? I wondered. Why couldn’t I remember?
As I continued on my way, something happened—something difficult to explain, but real to me. I seemed to hear a voice which said: “Don’t you understand, my son? I have forgotten that. Why should you remember?”
I was chagrined. There was no satisfactory answer to the question. I have never wondered about it again. And I knew more surely then than I had ever known before that the Lord is pleased when his children return to him.

In the following years, fellowshipping helped Gary return to Church activity. Jennifer would invite ward members or the missionaries over for dinner, knowing that would give them a chance to talk with Gary. He is grateful to those members and missionaries for being a good influence on him.
Dale Price, for example, home taught Jennifer’s mother and got to know Gary and Jennifer that way. When Brother Price visited with Brother Tucker, they didn’t talk about the gospel at first. They talked about a common interest: hunting. The Prices also sat with the Tuckers at ward activities, brought them food from their food storage when Brother Tucker was out of work, and gave them honey produced by their own honeybees. Honey is the Tuckers’ favorite topping on toast. That little gift, as Brother Price describes it, was “to sweeten the relationship.”

It was in March of 1878 that Aurelia first thought seriously of an organization for children, especially so little boys could be taught “everything good and how to behave.” She wanted desperately to help them and prayed that she might be shown a way. “I had a strong motivation within me,” she wrote in her history.
A few weeks later Sister Eliza R. Snow went to Farmington to meet with the Relief Society. She and Sister Emmeline B. Wells, who accompanied her, stopped at Aurelia’s home for a brief visit on their way to the depot to board a train back to Salt Lake. Sister Rogers discussed with them her concern over many of the boys, who she felt were not being properly taught the gospel nor the manners that would help them become good men. She asked if an organization to help them would ever be possible. We are told that Sister Snow was “silent for a few moments, then said there might be such a thing and that she would speak to the First Presidency about it.”
At that time John Taylor was president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the acting president of the Church, since a president had not yet been sustained by the Church membership after the death of Brigham Young. Sister Rogers talked with President Taylor who discussed the matter with other members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and they were inspired to write to Bishop John W. Hess of Farmington, asking him to call some women to be leaders. Sister Rogers was chosen to be the president. “Up to this period,” she said, “the girls had not been mentioned; but my idea was that the meeting would not be complete without them …” And so it was agreed.
Louisa Haight and Helen M. Miller were selected as counselors of the new organization to be called “Primary,” a name suggested by Sister Eliza R. Snow. Bishop Hess urged these women to visit every home in the area to invite the children to attend and to obtain their parents’ permission. Sister Rogers reported that they enrolled about 112 boys and 112 girls! The children together with all members of the ward, were asked to attend a public meeting on Sunday, August 11, 1878, when these women, and others, were set apart by Bishop Hess and his counselors to preside over a Primary at Farmington.
Bishop Hess was most helpful, often attending Primary himself or delegating other priesthood holders to do so. In a letter written shortly after the organization of the First Primary, Sister Snow wrote encouragingly:
“I feel assured that the inspiration of heaven is directing you, and that a great and very important movement is being inaugurated for the future of Zion … The angels and all holy beings, especially the leaders of Israel on the other side of the veil, will be deeply interested.”
Sister Rogers’ records that were so miraculously saved from the fire report that the children were called together for the very first Primary on August 25, 1878. This is how she described the Primaries that followed:
“When the children came to understand the motives which prompted the calling of their little meetings, they seemed elated with what was being done for them. Obedience, faith in God, prayer, punctuality and good manners were subjects oft repeated. At these meetings, the whole association would generally take part in the exercises. The smaller children were seated on the front benches, the rest according to size. At the proper time the smallest would rise up and perhaps, recite a verse or two in concert, then sit down and the next bench-full take their turn in answering Bible questions. Another class would sing a song; another would repeat sentiments or verses, one at a time, and so on.
“… The next spring we rented a town lot and the Primary Association planted beans and popcorn to go with the Relief Society wheat in the time of famine which is to come.”

Eleven-year-old Ashley slowly made her way down a crooked path that wound through the frosted hush of the October woods. She paused in a little patch of misted light that sifted through the leafy gold canopy, softening the early morning chill. She rubbed her arms, shivering at an inner cold that the sunlight couldn’t reach, the same cold that had frozen her father’s face in a mask of sorrow.
Ashley couldn’t see the unhappiness on her father’s face, because she had been blind since birth, but she could hear it in his voice and in the silence that had replaced his laughter when her mother died. It had been almost a whole year, but still—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of wings. Something or someone had startled a large bird nearby, and it erupted skyward.
A moment later a gentle voice said, “It’s me, Ashley—Michelle.” Ashley felt Michelle’s hand slip about hers. “You should have waited for me at your cabin.” Michelle’s voice was as light and airy as the wind-spun autumn leaves that danced in the yellow wood. “I was on my way to get you.”
“It’s OK,” Ashley said. “I know this path almost as well as these trees do. I’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks.”
Michelle glanced about at the golden silence. “It is pretty,” she admitted, “but well—since you can’t see, what is it that—” The sadness she saw in the dark, sightless eyes made her pause.
“You said that there are lots of yellows here at this time of year,” Ashley explained. “Remember when I asked you what yellow looked like? You told me it was a happy, warm color—like the sun, like a smile.” She reached through the blackness of her world and touched a yellow aspen leaf. “That’s why I come here. I keep hoping that somehow it will help me feel happy so that I can help my father smile again.”
Michelle squeezed Ashley’s hand. “It is beautiful here. But even if you could see, I don’t think all the yellows in the world could mend a heart for more than a moment.”
Ashley leaned against a leafless tree, feeling as empty as the branches above her. “You’re happy, Michelle. Why? I mean, you lost your brother in that millpond accident just last summer. And then your father’s fruit crop failed because of the late freeze, and he had to sell half his land.”
“I guess our testimonies keep us happy,” Michelle said thoughtfully.
“Testimonies?”
“Knowing that God lives,” Michelle returned simply, “that He loves us, that He allows us difficulties in our lives to help us grow. My mother says that a candle shines brightest in the blackest night.”
I know a lot about the blackest night, Ashley thought as the two girls started down the path in a rush of tumbling leaves. What she wanted to know more about were testimonies. “Tell me more,” she begged.
“They’re growing things, Ashley,” Michelle explained. “A testimony starts small, like the first light at dawn, then gets bigger and warmer like the sun at noonday, like the brightest of autumn leaves. But you have to work at it,” she added as the pair walked toward her farmhouse for a day of play. “You have to feel your way along like you do in these woods, only with your heart. All of it.”
“Will you help me get one, Michelle?”
Michelle stopped and faced her friend. “I can’t give you a testimony,” she answered kindly. “All I can do is share mine with you, and—” Michelle’s voice relayed her sudden idea. “Maybe there is a way I can help you, Ashley! Tomorrow is Sunday, and someone very special is coming to speak at our meetinghouse.”
“Who is it?”
“A prophet, Ashley. A prophet of God.”
Later, as Ashley waited impatiently for her father to return home from his job at the factory in Harperville, she listened to the wall clock tick like a tired heartbeat. At length she heard the rattle of a flatbed wagon and the snorting of spent horses outside. A few minutes later her father stood in the doorway.
“Hi, Ash, it’s me.” Papa’s voice sounded tired. “It was a long day, hon.” He sat down beside her and sighed wearily. “A long day.” He regarded his daughter in the ruddy haze of late-day window light. “What is it?”
“It’s a meeting, Papa! Tomorrow morning at Michelle’s church. Someone special is coming to talk to them. Will you take me, Papa? Please.”
Papa sighed again. “On my only day off? Not tomorrow, sweetheart. I’m so worn out I could sleep on a fence post for a week! I need tomorrow to—”
“Please, Papa?” Ashley implored again.
“Not tomorrow. Another time maybe.”
Papa patted her head, rose to his feet with a tired grunt, and disappeared into his room. “Wake me when the clock chimes again, and I’ll fix us something to eat,” he called back.
That night Ashley prayed that her father would somehow change his mind about the meeting, then drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Early the next morning, Ashley felt someone gently waking her “Ash? If we’re going to make that meeting on time we’d better get ourselves ready.”
Ashley sat up. “Papa! But I thought you were too tired.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Papa replied, “but when I woke up this morning, I felt more rested than if I had slept for a week of Sundays. So are you going to get up, or grow old in bed?” Papa ran his hand through the girl’s tangled hair, then left the room.
For a moment Ashley just lay in bed, reflecting on an answered prayer. She felt as if something was glowing inside her like the dawn’s first light streaming unseen through the curtains on her bedroom window.
At church, Ashley sat with Michelle on one side and Papa on the other, listening to a prophet’s voice. Ashley didn’t have to see the man behind the pulpit to know that he spoke with authority. She could feel it. The comfort, peace, and sweet assurance of his voice settled over her like the patchwork comforter her mother had made for her. He spoke with penetrating assuredness of the living God, the resurrection, and the reuniting of loved ones in the world to come.
Papa’s hand found hers, and squeezed it. Tears filled her sightless eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She felt her father’s body shake with emotion and knew that he was shedding tears of his own.
At that moment Ashley knew what yellow autumn leaves looked like. They were bright and beautiful, and they glowed—like her testimony. Like happy months and years ahead. Like a certain little cabin by the October woods, now even on the darkest of days.

Some years ago in the Philippines we arrived early for a conference. Sitting on the curb were a father and mother and four small children dressed in their Sunday best. They had come several hours on a bus and were having the first meal of the day. Each of them was eating a cob of cold, boiled corn. The cost of the bus to Manila probably came out of their food budget.
As I watched that family, my heart overflowed with emotion. There is the Church. There is the power. There is the future. As with families in many lands, they pay their tithing, sustain their leaders, and do their best to serve.
For more than 40 years, my wife and I have traveled over the earth. We know members of the Church in perhaps a hundred countries. We have felt the power in their simple faith. Their individual testimonies and their sacrifice have had a profound effect on us.

In the first few months after being called as a bishop, I was surprised when three sets of parents in my ward each approached me in private to let me know that they had a child who identified as gay or transgender. In each case, the parents expressed sincere love for their child coupled with various levels of concern that their child would not fit in the ward community.
Eventually, other families also shared similar information with me, and I realized that even though I wasn’t too familiar with these experiences, as a bishop I had the privilege of helping all of my ward members build a more unified community, no matter what they were experiencing.
I quickly realized that to be a more effective bishop, I needed to be willing to try to understand the experiences of members who identify as LGBT and their families. So, through heartfelt and open conversations, trial and error, a lot of study, and relying on the Lord for understanding, I learned a lot about how I could provide greater support to members in these circumstances as they strive to come unto Christ.
My eyes were opened to the need for unity and understanding, and I learned a few lessons that helped me as a bishop set a more inclusive tone with regard to all of our LGBT brothers and sisters. I hope that as leaders and others read what I learned, they will find some helpful ideas for their own situations.

I was down in California some time ago and found a missionary there preaching some false doctrine. I heard him say to a contact, “Missionaries don’t get paid; we work for nothing.”

When the contact had gone I said to the missionary, “Now, that’s the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard anybody make in my life. How did you ever figure out that missionaries didn’t get paid? I thought the Lord said that if you labor all your days and bring just one soul unto him your reward is going to be very great.”

I asked him if he remembered what the Lord has said about the worth of the soul being greater than the wealth of all of the earth, and he did. I asked him if he knew what the earth was worth, and he did not. I had a newspaper clipping that said the assessed valuation of just one little section of the United States alone—California, Arizona, and Nevada—was over a trillion dollars. I got this elder a piece of paper and a pencil and had him write a trillion dollars down on the paper—it has twelve zeros, in case you have never seen it written. He had brought in a convert each month for the past twelve months, which was all the time he had been out; so I had him figure out that if he worked thirty days a month and ten hours a day, that would be three hundred hours’ work to save a trillion-dollar soul. Then I had him divide a trillion by three hundred and he figured he was getting three billion three hundred thirty-three million dollars per hour.

I asked him, “What is the most that anybody ever paid you when you were at home?”

He said, “Seventy-five cents.”

I said, “All right, now what were you trying to get those poor people to believe when you said that a missionary doesn’t get paid?”

I knew that coming back to the realities of life after a mission might be hard, so I wanted to do everything I could to stay on the covenant path.
So when my stake announced that the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple was looking for more ordinance workers, I volunteered. I had been praying for some direction in my life, and I also believed President Russell M. Nelson’s promise that “the Lord will bring the miracles He knows you need as you make sacrifices to serve and worship in His temples.”
I couldn’t think of a better way to keep an ongoing appointment with the temple than to be an ordinance worker!
My life was so busy when I started working in the temple. I had university classes, and my temple shift was quite a few hours each week. It was a sacrifice—but a wonderful one.
Over time, I noticed that when I paid attention to the words of the covenants that the temple patrons were making, my own covenants started becoming more meaningful to me.
For one, I have always believed the truth that families can be eternal through the temple sealing. And helping patrons do work for their ancestors and seeing their deep love for their families inspired me to do my own family history work. I was able to do ordinances for my aunt and my grandmother who had passed away, and this made the blessings of those covenants become so precious to me.
Another time, while I was helping in the baptistry, I was observing all the beautiful faces of the patrons. While I helped them, I felt the Spirit as I thought about the Savior’s baptism. Seeing my brothers and sisters in the temple deepened my testimony of the privilege of making covenants with God.
I have served as an ordinance worker for five years now, and I have had so many simple but profound spiritual experiences like these. They remind me of how powerful our covenants with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are!
When I think about the blessings of covenants, I think of the people of Alma in Mosiah 24.
Despite facing so much hardship, Alma’s people remained faithful to Heavenly Father. They “pour[ed] out their hearts to him; and he did know the thoughts of their hearts” (verse 12). And in response, the Lord reminded them to “lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage” (verse 13).
He also promised that He would strengthen them and make their burdens light (see verses 14–15).
And as the people of Alma kept their covenants, their faithfulness and trust in Heavenly Father’s timing freed them from bondage, and they “pour[ed] out their thanks to God” (verse 21).
I feel like this is what we can experience every day as God’s covenant people. The temple reminds me that when I find myself in “bondage,” either from challenges in or outside of my control, my covenants bind me to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Because of this covenant relationship, I have access to Their healing and enabling power.
I’ve always been grateful for my temple covenants. But being an ordinance worker has helped me see them as the life-changing gifts they are.
President Nelson also reminded us that “the reward for keeping covenants with God is heavenly power—power that strengthens us to withstand our trials, temptations, and heartaches better. This power eases our way. Those who live the higher laws of Jesus Christ have access to His higher power. Thus, covenant keepers are entitled to a special kind of rest that comes to them through their covenantal relationship with God.”
You don’t have to be an ordinance worker to see the power of your covenants in your life. If you simply visit the temple as often as your circumstances allow you to, with a desire to learn more, I know you will see the blessings President Nelson promises.
Regardless of how close you are to a temple, pondering the deep, beautiful blessings of covenants and how they connect you to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ can help you stay joyful and faithful on the covenant path.
This has been true for me.

I grew up in a rural part of Eastern Idaho and attended a small high school where you knew everyone in the high school. It was very similar to high schools in the Rexburg area, as a large majority of those in my high school were members of our faith. As happens when you have a large percentage of people with similar beliefs, some oft used words and phrases that are common to us as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints became a part of our everyday conversations with no regard for those around us who may not understand the context in which they were used.
I learned of this challenge in an interesting way. After a team practice one evening as our team members were changing clothes, one of my teammates stood up on a bench in the locker room and announced that his younger sister was being baptized that night and we were all Invited to attend. I remember him saying, "It will start at 7 P.M. at the stake center, and we will have food afterwards." As this was something commonplace in my school, I didn't think much about it until my friend who was a member of another faith in the locker next to mine leaned over closer to me and said in a low voice, "It is so cool that you guys have your baptisms in a restaurant! It makes getting to the food part of it so much easier!" I looked at him confused until I realized that his understanding of a stake center was as a steak house restaurant!