Gospel Story Finder

When I was 17 years old, it was time for me to prepare to serve a mission. I had my interviews with my bishop, and in one of them he asked me if I had a testimony of the restored Church of the Savior Jesus Christ.
I began to meditate and simply shared with him the things that I had heard from the other members of the ward when they shared their testimonies. Then I realized that I had never prayed for myself to know if the gospel was true. I was born in the covenant, but when it came time to prepare for my mission, I realized that I was simply active in the Church out of custom or tradition.
I made it a goal to study The Book of Mormon every day and to pray to my Father to find out if it was true. Time passed, and I didn’t feel any answer until I got to the last chapter of the Book of Moroni, verses 3 through 5, which say:
“Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things, if it be wisdom in God that ye should read them, that ye would remember how merciful the Lord hath been unto the children of men, from the creation of Adam even down until the time that ye shall receive these things, and ponder it in your hearts.
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:3–5).
I was concerned because I had already finished the whole book and didn’t feel like I had received any response. In my neighborhood there was so much noise that the windows in my room were vibrating, I knelt down and prayed the most sincere prayer I have ever prayed in my life, and I begged my Heavenly Father to help me know if the Book of Mormon was true and if the Prophet Joseph Smith was a true prophet and if this was His Church.
With tears in my eyes and a very warm feeling in my chest, I felt how everything around me fell silent, and I heard the voice of the Spirit testifying to me that it was true. Since that day, I am a totally different person, and I have a solid and firm testimony thanks to my Heavenly Father.

As a teenager, Gerrit loved to go backpacking and hiking with the other young men in his ward. Wally Salbacka, a lifelong friend, remembers one camping trip in particular. “I was there with Gerrit and his brother, Brian, and a friend who wasn’t a member of our Church. For some reason, we started singing hymns. Gerrit sang melody, Brian sang tenor, and I sang bass. I think we sang 10 or 20 hymns, just for the joy of singing. It was a good experience. Our nonmember friend was impressed.”

Not long ago I learned of the passing of James Womack, the patriarch of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake. He had served long and had blessed ever so many lives. Years before, President Spencer W. Kimball shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on; the evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said: “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and part of an arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him into law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University.
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said: “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to stand behind the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball’s head, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will probably be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
Remembered were the words of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

In 1998 my family moved to the Netherlands. My siblings and I attended the American School of The Hague. My mom couldn’t drive us in the mornings, so we rode the bus and train to get to school. My older sisters attended early-morning seminary and left an hour earlier than my younger brother, Shaun, and I. We made it to school easily for the first half of the year, but then the bus routes changed because of construction.
One day we were waiting for our bus when I saw one with a different number but the same destination. I thought the number didn’t matter much, so we got on the bus. After about 20 minutes, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Shaun and I noticed we were nowhere near our school, and we both felt very lost and afraid.
We got off the bus, and I said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for comfort and help. I had been learning Dutch in school and realized I could ask someone for help. I asked around until I found a lady who spoke a little English. She gave us directions to catch the right bus to school. Soon we were headed in the right direction and feeling much better.
I will never forget the lost feeling I felt when I realized I was on the wrong bus. I know that the Lord helped me get back on track as He does constantly in our lives—not only physically, but spiritually. We all will feel lost in life’s decisions if we are not on the right track, but the Lord will always give direction and a way for us to get back on the path toward the right destination.

Challenges abounded in the mission, but so did treasured moments of spiritual refreshment and affirmation. For example, I was deeply moved as I attended church meetings in Vyborg on the first Sunday of my mission. Since 1963 I had visited Russia fairly frequently. In my heart I had felt that the restored gospel would be shared with this deserving people whom I had come to love dearly, but in my mind I could not imagine how our Church could ever be established with that country’s government and ruling party so opposed to religion.

On that day early in July 1990, I walked into a small music school and was greeted by two legendary missionaries and by nearly two dozen recently baptized members of the Church.

Before my sacrament meeting talk, six little girls, from about three to nine years of age, sang in Russian “I Am a Child of God.” The singing was angelic, as were, especially, their radiant, broadly smiling faces. As I watched and listened in awe, my heart filled with “hosannahs” for the blessing of this long-awaited day.

“My grandfather used to say, ‘If we want to become somebody, we have to learn to read,’” says Eduardo Contreras. “My grandfather was right.”
For Eduardo, however, the road to reading was a long one. As one of five children reared by his widowed mother in the city of Córdoba, Argentina, he quit school when he was eight years old and went to work to help support his family.
“We were very poor,” he recalls. To help make ends meet, Eduardo shined shoes, made bricks, picked potatoes, sold newspapers, and took on other odd jobs until, as a young man, he found full-time employment with the city government.
As the years passed, Eduardo married and started a family of his own. By the time most of his five children began to leave home, he still could not read and had little prospect of ever learning how. That changed one day when he chased off several local boys who were heckling two Latter-day Saint missionaries in front of his home. He invited the missionaries in, and before long he and his wife, María, were taking the discussions.
“I had a hard time understanding anything they said because they spoke little Spanish,” Eduardo recalls, “but they showed me a pamphlet that had pictures of the Savior and of the Prophet Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. I thought the pictures they showed us and the things they taught us were beautiful.”
Soon those missionaries were replaced by others, including a native Spanish speaker. Eduardo and María, who had lost an infant daughter to death a few years earlier, were touched by the Church film Families Are Forever. They, along with their youngest son, Osvaldo, were soon baptized.
With Eduardo’s baptism in 1987 came a desire to strengthen his testimony by reading the Book of Mormon. “How do I learn to read?” he asked his wife. María told him to look at the letters, put them together in his mind, try to sound out words, and then attempt to read aloud. With practice, she assured him, he would eventually learn to read.
Eduardo, then 45, knew the sounds of many letters, but he had not attempted to read since leaving school nearly four decades before.
With a prayer in his heart, Eduardo sat down one hot summer day in a shady spot in the backyard of his home. “There,” he says, “I determined to make the attempt.”
María says she never would have imagined what happened next. As she worked in the kitchen, she listened off and on as Eduardo attempted to sound out letters and words. “Suddenly I heard him speaking rapidly,” she says. “I listened and realized that he was reading—fluently. Less than half an hour had passed, and he was reading!”
Eduardo was so immersed in his attempt that he hadn’t realized he was reading. But as he read, he recalls, “I felt a fire burning within me.” Frightened and surprised, Eduardo called to his wife, “Mami, what is happening to me?”
“It’s the Spirit of the Lord,” María replied. “You are reading fluently!”
As she recalls the experience, María says, “It was something we can never deny.”
Eduardo adds, “The day I learned to read is also the day I gained my testimony of the Book of Mormon and its power.”
From then on, Eduardo began arising at 4:00 a.m. to read the Book of Mormon before going to work. He then read the Doctrine and Covenants, followed by the Bible. A library now graces the Contreras home, where few books were found before 1987.
As Eduardo’s and María’s gospel knowledge grew, so did their testimonies. When their son Osvaldo died following a traffic accident in 2001, their testimonies—coupled with powerful spiritual experiences during prayer and in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple, where they and Osvaldo had been sealed—helped them deal with their loss.
“Perhaps some parents would have gone crazy,” Eduardo says, “but we felt a calmness that said, ‘Your son is well.’ Of course we wept. He was a good son, and we miss him. But we have been sealed in the temple, and we know where he is.”
Thanks to tutoring from a member of his ward, Eduardo also learned to write. “Before,” he says, “I couldn’t even sign my name.”
With the light of literacy, Eduardo came to understand the truthfulness of his grandfather’s words.
“We are here on earth so we can progress a little more each day,” he says. By learning to read and write, he adds, he is showing his children and grandchildren that it is never too late to learn, improve, and become what God wants us to become. “Because I can read, I learn something new every day,” he says.
Today Brother Contreras can read anything he wants to read, including the newspapers he once sold as an illiterate child. The scriptures remain his favorite books, especially the Book of Mormon. He has read it cover to cover eight times.
“For me the Book of Mormon was the door,” he says, still grateful for how literacy and the gospel have changed his life. “The Book of Mormon was everything to me. It is everything to me. I feel the Spirit every time I open it to read.”

Some time ago I went into a flower shop and started talking to the owner about the plants he was selling, and we exchanged ideas about the different ways of growing them. After that, each time I worked in that area, I would go into this shop and talk to the owner about his work and mine, until little by little I began to talk to him about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I started by talking about God and sharing what I felt about Him. Diego, the owner of the flower business, told me he didn’t believe in Jesus Christ; he just believed in an entity who had the power to create all things. This surprised me, and I told him I wanted to give him something that was very important to me—the Book of Mormon. I also told him I wanted to introduce him to the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Diego agreed. I set up the appointment, and later the missionaries went to his business. After he had received three discussions, he invited the missionaries to his home.
At this time my work area changed, but one day I happened to run into the missionaries who were teaching Diego. I asked about him and tried to find out what kind of progress he was making. They told me he was going to be baptized, but they didn’t know when. A week later I learned that Diego’s family had been baptized, except for his daughter Carla. I was happy to hear about their decision. My contact had borne fruit.
Two weeks later at a stake meeting, I heard about a convert named Diego Páez who had recently been baptized and who was very enthusiastic about the Church. Later the mission president told me they were going to confirm him on Sunday.
The following Sunday I went to Diego’s ward and saw him sitting with his family on one of the pews. I sat down next to him, and he smiled and said, “Thank you, Daniel.”
When Diego sat in the chair where the elders quorum president would confirm him a member of the Church, I was invited to join the circle. I did so, and when the elders quorum president said the words “Receive the Holy Ghost,” I too could feel the influence of the Spirit. My heart beat hard, and peace completely overwhelmed me.
I had never felt such joy. When Diego stood up, I embraced him. Tears sprang from my eyes. I felt strengthened, as described in Doctrine and Covenants 50:22: “Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together.”
As for Diego’s daughter Carla, she was baptized the following week by her father. The Páez family has continued to progress. Milagros, who was three years old at the time of the baptisms, kneels down and says prayers with her parents, asking Heavenly Father to bless her family. Diego and his wife, Gabriela, work to share the gospel with others.
There must be a lot of Páez families all over the world—just waiting for someone to bring the light of truth to their lives. What a joy it is to share what we feel for the gospel of Jesus Christ and to be able to help others feel the way we do.

Nearly 25 years ago, our family lived in Massachusetts, where I was enrolled in graduate school. My program of study was very demanding, leaving me little free time. One Sunday in church the ward Primary president approached me and asked if I might substitute as a Primary teacher for two weeks. Primary was then held on a weekday afternoon, and I knew it would be difficult to find room in my schedule to teach the class. But after some hesitation, I agreed.
The appointed day came to teach Primary. That afternoon I was in the university library, absorbed in a book on international politics. The subject I was studying seemed somehow more important than the upcoming Primary class. Consequently, I procrastinated until just 30 minutes before the class was to begin to review the lesson I was to teach. Then I walked from the library down to our ward chapel on the edge of campus. My reluctant attitude must have slowed my steps, for I arrived a few minutes late. As I stepped to the door of the Primary room, the children were just beginning to sing the opening hymn. It was a song I had never heard before, a song whose melody and message touched me deeply:
As I have loved you,
Love one another.
This new commandment:
Love one another.
By this shall men know
Ye are my disciples,
If ye have love
One to another.
(“Love One Another,” Hymns, no. 308)
As I stood there, transfixed in the doorway, the Spirit bore witness that I was looking at the most important class taking place in Cambridge, Massachusetts, that day.
Back at the university in dozens of classrooms and laboratories, dedicated scholars were pursuing answers to the world’s problems. Yet valuable though such efforts may have been, the university did not and could not hold the ultimate answers to the problems of a troubled world. Here before me was the Lord’s answer: the quiet building up of His kingdom on earth by the teaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ. What was taking place in Primary that day was a small part of a divinely revealed plan for the salvation of a fallen world.

I took the New Era magazine with me to work to read during my break time. At one point during my shift, I went to the back to get some things from the freezer and found one of my friends flipping through my magazine while she was on break.
“This must be yours,” she said as I smiled at her.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s the New Era magazine I receive each month through my church.”
Later that evening, she asked if she could borrow the magazine for the night and read through it. Ever since then I have brought the New Era with me to work each month and have had quite a few friends ask me questions about my beliefs and about different principles of the gospel. I have also been able to give the friend I mentioned earlier a copy of the Book of Mormon.
I’m grateful for the chance to share the gospel in such a simple way. It has brought joy into my life.

The Smith family and others in their area were given opportunities to heft the ancient record and feel its individual plates at the Smith family home in Manchester Township, New York. Joseph’s younger brother William, age 16 in 1827, had a vivid memory of witnessing the plates, which he later shared in a sermon: “When the plates were brought in they were wrapped up in a tow frock. My father then put them into a pillow case. Father said, ‘What, Joseph, can we not see them?’ [Joseph responded,] ‘No. … I was forbidden to show them until they are translated, but you can feel them.’ We handled them and could tell what they were. … Could tell whether they were round or square. Could raise the leaves this way (raising a few leaves of the Bible before him). One could easily tell that they were not a stone, hewn out to deceive, or even a block of wood.”1

On another occasion, William provided further information: “I could tell they were plates of some kind and that they were fastened together by rings running through the back.”2 He also wrote that in addition to feeling the individual plates and rings, he had hefted the entire artifact: “I was permitted to lift them. … They weighed about 60 pounds according to the best of my judgment.”3 Joseph’s younger sister Katherine, age 14, also got to hold the plates the day Joseph brought them home. She “rippled her fingers up the edge of the plates and felt that they were separate metal plates and heard the tinkle of sound that they made.”4

Nine-year-old Amber Donohue didn’t want to get out of bed. I have four good reasons not to, she reasoned, and only one reason why I should: It’s Sunday and church starts in an hour.
She thought hard about why she shouldn’t: In the first place, I’m too tired. It isn’t fair that bears can sleep all winter but people can sleep only at night. In the second place, it’s too cold to get up. Judging from the way the snow was piled on the limbs of the maple tree outside her bedroom window, Amber was sure that it had snowed all night. In the third place, she thought, if I get up now, I’ll be cross with everybody for having to get up. It wouldn’t be fair to others. And in the fourth place, … Amber couldn’t think of a fourth reason yet, but she was sure that if she stayed in bed long enough, she’d think of something!
Amber knew, though, that her one reason for getting up was more important than all the ones for staying in bed put together. It was Heavenly Father’s day, and she knew that He wanted her to be in Primary. She also knew deep down in her heart that she wanted to be there too. She glumly crawled out from under her covers and sat on the edge of her bed. “What are you staring at?” she snapped at her pet white rat, Cuddles, that sat looking at her from its cage in the corner. “You don’t have to get up!”
Amber’s five-year-old brother, Arnie, knocked, then skipped into her room, his shoes untied.
“What do you want?” she snarled at him.
“I want to get out of here,” Arnie said, deciding not to ask her for a favor, after all. He hurried down the hall back to his own room.
As Amber slowly got her Sunday shoes from her closet, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready, everyone. We have to hurry, or we’ll be late for church.” Then she added, “Don’t forget to wear your warmest coats and put on your best singing voices.”
“I’ll wear my warmest coat, that’s for sure,” Amber grumbled, “but nobody can make me sing! I don’t feel like singing any more than I feel like getting out of bed!”
Suddenly Amber heard singing outside her window. It was a bird on the tree limb. Amber stared at it with surprise. “It’s gray and windy and cold out there,” she muttered. “Why is that bird singing such a happy song?”
“Maybe it’s counting its blessings,” came a small voice from behind her. Amber turned and saw Arnie standing a safe distance from her, his shoes still untied. “Mommy says that whenever she’s sad or just wants to feel better, she either counts her blessings or sings a song. Especially about Jesus. Like we do in Primary. And sacrament meeting. She says that she sings when she’s happy too.” Then Arnie added, “Heavenly Father likes singing. A lot. Otherwise why would He put so many birds in the world?” As Arnie turned and started to leave the room, he said, “Maybe you should sing a song, Amber. Maybe you should sing lots of them.”
Alone again in her room, Amber looked at herself in her dresser mirror. The first song that came to her mind was the one about no one liking a frowny face. She looked at the bird in the tree outside her window again. It was still singing. It’s happy, Amber thought. Maybe it’s counting its blessings and praising Heavenly Father too. If birds can sing on gloomy days, she thought as she started toward the kitchen, why can’t I?
Amber was ready for church on time. Well, almost on time. She stopped halfway through brushing her hair just long enough to help Arnie tie his shoelaces. And she sang every Primary song that she could think of all the way to church.

At seventeen, John registered at Brigham Young College in Logan. Two years later he graduated, and soon after that, he boarded a train bound for Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Harvard University. The venture was financed by bank loans and mortgages against his mother’s property. It was at Harvard that John met his future wife, Leah Eudora Dunford, who attended classes there one summer. In 1894 John graduated in chemistry with highest honors and accepted a job as professor of chemistry and as chemist at the experiment station at Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) in Logan.

A few weeks ago there appeared in our local newspaper the account of a woman who while reading a magazine in her doctor's office waiting room read of an "Exemplary Husband " contest being sponsored by the magazine and inviting entries to be submitted for the contest. The woman returned home, wrote a description of the admirable traits of her thoughtful husband and without informing him she mailed it and immediately forgot about her entry.

Several weeks later she was notified that her entry had been selected as a finalist in the contest. Her husband was embarrassed and she was justifiably pleased and proud. Listen to her description of her husband written in her entry.

As I read the account of this wonderful couple I was thrilled as I'm certain others were also. I don't know that they are members of the Church, but the power of their example is so desperately needed and appreciated regardless of religious affiliation. O how this world that lacks so much kindness and civility in marriage is blessed by the example of that couple and so many others like them.

So much of the strength of the Church traces back to the British Isles. “Listen to the call of the good shepherd,” Brigham Young counseled as he encouraged the saints abroad to gather to the new Zion. Come. British convert John Jaques wrote,“When [the Lord] calls his saints to do anything, if they will rely upon Him and do the best they can, He will fit the back to the burden and make everything bend to the accomplishments of His purposes.”
But that doesn’t mean it will be easy. The first three handcart companies of 1856 arrived in the valley just days before General Conference. The last two were not so fortunate. They started late from England and were delayed in Iowa. Little did they know what lay ahead. Unfamiliar ground it was indeed and soon it was covered in snow.
“Our old and infirm people began to droop,” John Chislett of the Willie company wrote, “and they no sooner lost spirit and courage than death’s stamp could be traced upon their features. Life went out as smoothly as a lamp ceases to burn when the oil is gone.”
Children chewed on bark, leaves, twigs and even the tattered leather from the boots of those–who had died. Wrote Elizabeth Horrocks Jackson of the Martin Company, “I listened to hear my husband breathe – he lay so still. I put my hand on his body, when to my horror I discovered that my worst fears were confirmed . . . He was cold and stiff – rigid in the arms of death.”
Come home.
The daily journal of James Bleak, Martin Company gives us a glimpse of their suffering.
Thursday 23rd October. We traveled 5 miles. For several days we have been weather bound in consequence of a heavy fall of snow.
Friday 24th. No traveling.
Saturday 25th. No traveling. Our rations reduced to 8 oz of flour for adults and 4 oz for children.
Sunday 26th. No traveling
Monday 27th. No traveling.
Tuesday 28th October. No traveling. Joseph A. Young, Abel Garr and one other [Daniel Jones] were met from the valley. When they first made their appearance I do not think there was one in camp but shed tears of joy.
“Many declared we were angels from heaven,” recalled Daniel Jones of the rescue party. “I told them I thought we were better than angels for this occasion, as we were good strong men come to help them [come] into the valley.” Among those who reached the valley was Susanna Stone Lloyd of the Willie Company who wrote, “Our toilsome journey . . . was hard to endure, but the Lord gave us strength and courage.”

In the United States, jail is often a place of waiting. Usually the men and women there are waiting to be sentenced by a court. There isn’t much to do to pass the time, and sometimes boredom spills out into outright anger.
I had the opportunity to serve as branch president at a jail. It was a privilege to help bring the gospel of Jesus Christ into that building. It was at one of our weekly services that I met Brad.
Brad had been incarcerated in various places for 30 years. His family had given up on him, and he didn’t have much to look forward to. One day he discovered that an old friend was also at the jail. They decided to catch up at one of our Sunday services. The Spirit was so strong, however, that they didn’t end up doing much talking. Brad was touched. He agreed to meet with me after the meeting.
I still remember Brad walking into that first interview, his head shaved except for a braided ponytail and menacing mustache. I remember thinking, “Here is my next Alma the Younger.” As we prayed together, something amazing happened. I saw in my mind a spiritually pure, peaceful man. I realized that Heavenly Father had shown me what Brad’s future could be if he responded to the Spirit.
Brad agreed to meet with me again and again. With each visit, the spiritual intensity of our conversations grew. The Holy Ghost helped me feel close to Brad and brought Brad closer to the Lord. Over time, Brad helped many other inmates study the gospel. They knelt together in prayer at night, ignoring the stares and ridicule of inmates who did not join them. The Light of Christ shone more obviously from them. I started lovingly referring to them as our “sons of Mosiah.”
Brad and his other incarcerated friends are still on their spiritual journey, as we all are. But their story reminds us that the Holy Ghost can help us wherever we are. God loves His children—every last one of us.

I have related before my experience with a friend who took me to his ranch. He unlocked the door of a large new automobile, slid behind the wheel, and said proudly, “How do you like my new car?” We rode in luxurious comfort into the rural areas to a beautiful new landscaped home, and he said with no little pride, “This is my home.”

He drove to a grassy knoll. The sun was setting behind the distant hills. He surveyed his vast domain. Pointing to the north, he asked, “Do you see that clump of trees yonder?” I could plainly discern them in the fading day.

He pointed to the east. “Do you see the lake shimmering in the sunset?” It too was visible.

“Now, the bluff that’s on the south.” We turned about to scan the distance. He identified barns, silos, the ranch house to the west. With a wide sweeping gesture, he boasted, “From the clump of trees to the lake, to the bluff, and to the ranch buildings and all between—all this is mine. And the dark specks in the meadow—those cattle are also mine.”

And then I asked from whom he obtained it. The chain of title of his abstract went back to land grants from governments. His attorney had assured him he had an unencumbered title.

“From whom did the government get it?” I asked. “What was paid for it?” There came into my mind the declaration of the Psalmist, boldly restated by Paul: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fulness thereof” (1 Cor. 10:26).

And then I asked, “Did title come from God, Creator of the earth and the owner thereof? Did he get paid? Was it sold or leased or given to you? If a gift, from whom? If a sale, with what exchange or currency? If a lease, do you make proper accounting?”

And then I asked, “What was the price? With what treasures did you buy this farm?”

“Money!”

“Where did you get the money?”

“From my toil, my sweat, my labor, and my strength.”

And then I asked, “Where did you get your strength to toil, your power to labor, your glands to sweat?”

He spoke of food.

“Where did the food originate?”

“From sun and atmosphere and soil and water.”

“And who brought those elements here?”

I quoted the Psalmist: “Thou, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, whereby thou didst confirm thine inheritance, when it was weary” (Ps. 68:9).

“If the land is not yours, then what accounting do you make to your landlord for his bounties? The scripture says: ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s.’ What percentage of your increase do you pay Caesar? And what percent to God?

“Do you believe the Bible? Do you accept the command of the Lord through the prophet Malachi? Do you believe Moses’ words to Pharaoh that ‘the earth is the Lord’s’?” (Ex. 9:29).

I said again: “I seem to find no place in holy writ where God has said, ‘I give you title to this land unconditionally.’

“I cannot find such scripture, but I do find this from Psalms: ‘Those that wait upon the Lord, … shall inherit the earth’ (Ps. 37:9).

“And I remember that our Creator covenanted in the council in heaven with us all: ‘[And] we will go down, for there is space there, and we will take of these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell’ (Abr. 3:24).

“It seems more of a lease on which a rental is exacted than of a simple title.

“This does not seem to convey the earth but only the use and contents which are given to men on condition that they live all of the commandments of God.”

But my friend continued to mumble, “Mine—mine,” as if to convince himself against the surer knowledge that he was at best a recreant renter.

That was long years ago. I later saw him lying in his death among luxurious furnishings in a palatial home. His had been a vast estate. And I folded his arms upon his breast, and drew down the little curtains over his eyes. I spoke at his funeral, and I followed the cortege from the good piece of earth he had claimed to his grave, a tiny, oblong area the length of a tall man, the width of a heavy one.

Later I saw that same estate, yellow in grain, green in lucerne, white in cotton, seemingly unmindful of him who had claimed it.

When I was a boy, our family lived in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake. The ward population was rather transient, which resulted in an accelerated rate of turnover with respect to the teachers in the Sunday School. As boys and girls we would just become acquainted with a particular teacher and grow to appreciate him or her when the Sunday School superintendent would visit the class and introduce a new teacher. Disappointment filled each heart, and a breakdown of discipline resulted.

Prospective teachers, hearing of the unsavory reputation of our particular class, would graciously decline to serve or suggest the possibility of teaching a different class where the students were more manageable. We took delight in our newly found status and determined to live up to the fears of the faculty.

One Sunday morning, a lovely young lady accompanied the superintendent into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself, and then she asked questions which gave her an understanding and insight into the background of each. She told us of her girlhood in Midway, Utah, and as she described that beautiful valley she made its beauty live within us and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much.

When Lucy taught, she made the scriptures actually live. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, Joseph Smith, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.

We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic Christmas party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys with typical appetites we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious event. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this was to be.

The summer months faded into autumn. Autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.

None of us will forget that gray morning when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sincere sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.

The lesson this Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were Depression times, and money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked: “How would you like to follow this teaching of our Lord? How would you feel about taking our party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted so carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope. A beautiful card was purchased and inscribed with our names.

This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive.

The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons. Her personal influence for good was contagious.

While teaching at BYU in 1978, Brother Dennis Rasmussen applied and was selected to study at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. In the opening session, as he gave his name and university, Rabbi Muffs boomed, “You’re the Mormon! … Do you pay your tithing?” “Yes,” he answered. “Do you pay it with a joyful heart?” “I believe,” the rabbi said, “that joy is the essence of religion. There is nothing more fundamental to religious living than joy. … I am working on a book about joy.” Brother Rasmussen responded, “There’s a passage in the Book of Mormon that you might like. It says, ‘Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.’” Rabbi Muffs was profoundly touched and exclaimed, “I’ve found the text I’ve searched for all my life … in the Book of Mormon.” Turning to Brother Rasmussen he said, “Say it again, but not so fast.” As he repeated the familiar words, the rabbi’s eyes glowed in appreciation of this great truth he understood but had not heard so succinctly expressed.

After hearing this story, our nine-year-old son, Rick, who had been training for the Cub Scout Olympics, said, “I want to beat that boy’s record.”
“That’s a great goal,” my wife and I told him. “You’ll need to build up to that by doing a little more each night.”
“No!” came Rick’s response. “I want to do it tonight.”
Right there on our living room floor, Rick started doing sit-ups. After about 250 we said, “That’s very good, Rick. Now you can go to bed and tomorrow night you can do some more.”
But Rick wouldn’t give up. When he got to 500 sit-ups, we could see in his eyes that he wasn’t going to stop. He did 1,004 sit-ups that night. My wife and I know that even if we had given a hundred lessons on never giving up on our goals, they wouldn’t have meant as much to our family as Rick doing 1,004 sit-ups that night.

A few years ago, I coached a boys’ soccer team. They were an amazing group of players—fast, agile, with the instinct of anticipating where the ball would or should go on the next kick. The players really clicked as a team. They breezed through the season with a perfect record, most of the games ending in lopsided scores.
One of my favorite players on the team was Matt. Matt was an exception to most of his teammates. He wasn’t as skilled or naturally athletic as they were, but he played with a lot of heart. He developed a knack for playing defense. Matt wasn’t a fast runner, but he had courage and the uncanny ability to get himself right in front of a player ready to shoot on goal. Matt stopped dozens of shots that season with almost every part of his body—feet, legs, stomach, chest, and, on one memorable shot, his face. Matt earned the nickname “The Wall” because it seemed like no opposing player could get the ball past him.
Matt had one dream for that season: he wanted to score a goal. Since he played defense, at the opposite end of the field from the opponents’ net, he had little chance to score.
The last game of the season came and our team raced out to a quick and comfortable lead. As the match wore down, I called Matt over to the sideline and told him to play forward for the remainder of the game, a position where he’d have a better chance to score. With a confidence that surprised me, I told him, “Whenever their goalie has the ball, plant yourself in front of the box. Be in the right place at the right time and you’ll get your goal today.”
A few minutes later, one of our players kicked the ball on goal. The other team’s goalkeeper stopped the shot, put the ball on the turf, and kicked the ball low and hard.
And Matt, true to his nature, got right in front of it.
The ball thudded into his chest and ricocheted past the shocked and flailing goalkeeper into the net. Matt’s teammates and their parents exploded in cheers.
It wasn’t pretty, but Matt got his goal. He couldn’t have been more excited if he’d scored in a World Cup match.
I bumped into Matt a while ago, and it didn’t take long for us to start reminiscing about his amazing goal. We both agreed that, while his goal was thrilling and something neither of us would ever forget, it was the lessons we learned about life that warm autumn day that mattered most.