Gospel Story Finder

At our multistake youth conference, we all received a Book of Mormon and were invited to give it to someone. I wanted to give mine to my favorite pop singer.
When I found out he was giving a concert in my city, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity. Each of his concerts has a random drawing that selects 15 fans to go backstage and meet him. It’s nearly impossible to be selected, but I entered anyway.
A few weeks before the concert, I wrote my testimony in a Book of Mormon and prayed. I explained to Heavenly Father that the odds were against me and that I needed His help.
As soon as I said “amen,” my cell phone rang with a call from the singer’s office. I had been selected!
Backstage on the day of the concert, I presented the singer with the book. He opened it and read my testimony: “I spent a lot of time thinking of a valuable, useful present for you. I realized that I needed to give you something that was valuable because of what it contained and not because of its price. This is the Book of Mormon; it is the most precious thing I have. It will be for you too if you read it.”
He gave me a hug and said he would read it. I couldn’t hold back my tears!

I want to thank you for the article “Why Am I Running?” in the January 1991 issue. I am a 27-year-old male who is currently serving a prison term. I am here as a direct result of “running.”
As a teenager I became too concerned about what others thought of me. I began to do things that were not socially acceptable. By the time I was an adult my free agency belonged to those I was constantly trying to impress.
I am trying to return to the gospel, but old habits die hard. Please use your agency wisely. The road back is tough, so stay on the straight and narrow path.
K. T.Clallam Bay Corrections Center, Washington

My family was driving down a residential road in France when my father thought he smelled something burning. We pulled over to the side of the road and inspected the car. We couldn’t find anything wrong with the car, but we did find something else: a wallet on the side of the road with money in it!
My initial reaction was that I would be able to buy lots of neat things. I knew, however, that we should be honest. My father drove to the police station, and we turned the wallet over to the police. I felt happy, and I know that honesty is worth any cost.

S stands for Service in Arizona. All over the state, LDSSA council members are boosting the idea that involvement is joy.
In the Phoenix region, the Latter-day Saint students are concentrating on the underprivileged areas. The main focus of their work has been on community school activities. They started from scratch and have developed a five-day-a-week program for all interested adult members in the surrounding community.
“We beamed with pride when Mr. Fuller, director of the community school, spoke at the institute and praised our efforts,” commented Gordon Paul Sorenson.
Brian Hendrickson, third-year law student, is community project chairman; and, according to Tempe institute director Sherman Beck, Brian stirred up a wonderful storm when he got the community project going. “Working with underprivileged children to lift them to greater heights of accomplishment and to give meaning to their lives is most rewarding,” Brian says.
Erline Hall is a great girl with a heart quick to sense an ache in another’s. She has winning ways with children, too, who clamor to “sit by teacher” as she assists them in reading as part of Safford, Arizona’s Head Start program. Her speciality is the five-year-old Mexican-American students, who are eager to learn.
Winter has come to the desert around Tucson. The morning air is biting to young Lamanites standing in a huddle waiting for their ride to seminary. Their own parents are unable to take them. But there are smiles all around when a long car pulls to a quick stop. It’s Chris, one of the girls who signed up with LDSSA’s car pool project. At seminary the students will be taught by a young returned missionary, also a member of LDSSA.
Every Monday night in Tucson, carloads of happy college students embark upon their most thrilling night of the week. Twenty minutes later they are in a twentieth century ghetto, tutoring elementary and high school students.
One member is teaching piano to four black students; and because no instruments are available in their homes or in the neighborhood, she picks the students up and takes them to the institute, where pianos are available.
“The service we render to others is really the rent we pay for our room on this earth,” said Sir Wilfred Thomason Grenfell. The service we render to others is also an act of love and obedience before our Heavenly Father, who reminds us that to lose our life is to save it.

Bryan K., age 9, Taiwan
I did not do well on my Malay language paper during the first semester examination, and my rank in class dropped badly. I was very upset, but I knew only I was to blame, because I had spent many hours after school playing with my friends instead of doing my homework and studying. My mother and I made a plan to help me improve. I would finish my homework without a fuss as she asked each day, and both of us would pray for me to do well on the second semester exam. I worked hard the whole semester. A week before the exam, my mother was prompted to have me prepare a particular topic for the composition portion of the exam. The teacher decides what the topic will be, and we are graded on how well we write about that topic.
On the day of the exam, I was surprised when I saw that the topic the teacher had chosen was the very one I had prepared for! Because I had worked hard and prepared, even though I did not know this would be the topic, I wrote very well and got an A+! My teacher was surprised that I had improved so much.
I gained a testimony regarding work. I know that when we pray and work hard, we will receive inspiration to help us succeed at our work.

Lisa soaked in the coolness of the dewy morning air as she walked down the winding lane. She knew she should be exhausted. Yesterday she and her mother had left their home in Utah. They had flown to Chicago, then on to Manchester, England. The trip had taken 16 hours. Aunt Enid met them in Manchester and drove them the three hours to the old farm house at Bwlchycibau, Wales.
As they had neared the small village, her aunt had slowed the car down and said, “That’s the churchyard where your grandparents are buried, Lisa,” pointing to the left. Looking out the window, Lisa saw a church spire above a grey stone wall. As they rounded the corner she noticed a small wooden gate.
She hadn’t had time to think any more. There had been cases to unload, cousins to meet, a farm house to explore, and finally the bliss of lying in bed for much overdue sleep.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she awoke. She knew that she should still be asleep, but her body was on Utah time and no amount of mental persuasion could entice sleep back once it had fled. She heard voices and peeked out of the small dormer window to see her uncle and oldest cousin Wynn heading off towards a building that she assumed was where the cows were milked.
She lay back on her pillow. A picture of the churchyard flashed into her mind. All at once, she knew that more than anything, she wanted to be alone for her first visit to Bwlchycibau churchyard.
Lisa stopped at the small wooden gate in the wall that she had noticed the night before. She realized as she reached for the latch that she was nervous. She had held back her feelings for many years, and now in a strange churchyard, half a world away from home, she was going to confront them.
She walked slowly down the well-worn path. On either side of her were gravestones, some lichen covered, others leaning slightly. Some stones were well cared for with small flower arrangements at their bases; others were totally neglected. She could imagine other girls, perhaps her own ancestors, walking down this same footpath.
She began meandering between the stones, looking for a familiar name: Williams, Roberts, Davies, Jones. It took awhile, but suddenly she read: “Mabel Jones, beloved wife of Arthur Jones 1917–1994.” Beside the purple slate stone was another: “Arthur Jones, beloved husband of Mabel Jones 1911–1968.” There was a copper bowl of yellow roses at the base of each grave. Her Aunt Enid had been here.
Lisa turned, sat down on an old tree stump nearby, then faced her grandmother’s grave. She said aloud, “Oh, Granny, I wish I had known you. Why did it have to be this way?”
She looked down and whispered, “I wish you had known that I am a good person and that Mum is happy. I don’t understand why you were so bitter. How could you hate me without even knowing me?”
Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “When you have a testimony of the gospel like Mum does, you just can’t deny it. Her decision to join the Church was not made carelessly. She fasted and prayed about it many times because she knew it would be hard on you so soon after losing Grandpa. Even though she went away, Mum never stopped loving you or feeling bad for hurting you, Granny.”
Lisa paused. Her eyes filled with tears. “Why couldn’t you have just once acknowledged me? I know that Mum wrote and told you when I was born. We never heard anything. Weren’t you even curious about me? It was hard hearing all my friends talk about their grandmas. You were just an empty ache inside. I didn’t even know you, but I missed you so much.”
Lisa looked at the new gravestone and asked, “Did you get my letter last year? I wrote and told you that I was going to come and see you. I came, Granny. I came, but you didn’t wait.”
With that, Lisa’s whispered words ceased, and she let the tears run down her cheeks without wiping them away. She didn’t hear the quiet approach of a short, aging man in black until his dark robes brushed against her leg. She gasped, startled.
“Can I help you, child?” His soft Welsh accent was like music. Lisa stood, feeling a little foolish.
“You were sitting here for so long that I became anxious about you,” the man said. “Early morning in the churchyard can be quite chilly you know.”
Lisa managed a watery smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Really I am. But thank you for your concern. Are you the rector here?”
The clergyman peered at her perceptively, noting her deep blue eyes, still filled with tears. “That’s right, dear. I’m Reverend Lloyd. Been here at Bwlchycibau for well on 35 years now. Yes, indeed, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go in my time.
“You take this lady here now,” he continued in a comfortable tone, and gestured towards Lisa’s grandmother’s grave. “She was a very special lady. She lived her life quietly giving service to others. Yes, indeed, Mabel Jones is sorely missed by us all.” He sighed, a little sadly.
“What did she do?” Lisa asked, trying to hide her feverish desire to know more.
“Well,” said Reverend Lloyd, “it may be easier for me just to show you. Come with me.” He turned and led the way slowly to the church.
The cool, dark interior of the church was a shock after the bright light of morning outside. Lisa gazed around with interest. The wooden pews were polished to a shine. The stone floor and walls were cold, and every footfall echoed. At the front of the aisle was the altar, draped in a white lace cloth. All around the chapel were tall narrow stained-glass windows. Beams of multicolored light danced on the floor as the sunlight hit the beautiful glass.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” exclaimed Lisa, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I’m glad you think so, child,” Reverend Lloyd smiled briefly. Then he led Lisa to a pew halfway down the aisle.
“This is the Jones’s pew,” he said. “Mabel’s daughter Enid and her family still use this bench. A few years ago Mabel decided that her knees were getting too old to kneel on the stone floor, so she made herself a small cushion to kneel on.” He handed Lisa a rectangular pillow that was tucked under the pew. “It’s needlepoint, I believe.”
Lisa touched the delicate work. “It’s lovely,” she said quietly. She felt overwhelmed to be holding something her grandmother had made.
“Yes, that’s exactly what everyone in the congregation thought too. So during the next few winters, Mabel made one or two for every family at church. Each one is a little different, but all most beautiful.” Reverend Lloyd bent down and lifted another pillow from beneath the next bench and handed it to Lisa.
Lisa looked at the two works of art in her hands and wondered that aging hands could create such masterpieces. Reluctantly, she handed them back to the rector. He then guided Lisa towards a small door at the back of the chapel.
“When Reverend Price, my predecessor, first came here as a young rector, there was no village school for the children. A few of the wealthier families sent their children into Oswestry on the train to attend school, but most of the children went without formal instruction. Mabel married Arthur Jones about that time. She moved into Bwlch Farm and was soon involved in the community. It concerned her no end that all the young children here were illiterate. She approached Reverend Price to see if they could do something about it. This was what they came up with.”
Reverend Lloyd opened the thick wooden door into a small room containing one large wooden desk, a large old oak chair, and half a dozen small chairs and tables. On the wall were faded maps, pictures of wild animals, and the alphabet.
“For ten years this was the Bwlchycibau schoolroom. Mabel would come and teach the children of the village three mornings a week. She received no pay for it. She just did it because she saw a need. There are many farmers around here now who wouldn’t be reading if it weren’t for Mabel Jones.
“When the county finally built a school in the village and sent us a certified teacher, Mabel still stopped by once a week to read to the children. I think it was the highlight of the week for them all.”
Lisa let her eyes wander around the room as the rector spoke. She tried to imagine her grandmother reading to the young farm children. Suddenly, she realized that Reverend Lloyd had moved onto another subject.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he was saying.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lisa asked apologetically.
“Well, it’s like I was saying,” said the rector, “Mabel Jones did so much Christian service that nobody ever thought she’d done anything she really regretted. But there was something. I only found out about it a few days before her death.”
Reverend Lloyd took Lisa by the arm and led her out of the schoolroom, closing the door behind him. They walked outside, and he motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench beneath the church porch.
“Mabel became ill a few days before her death. I went to see her. She was very weak but wanted to talk to me. She told me about her daughter, not Enid who lives at the farm now, but Mary, an older daughter who went away to America as a young girl. She married an American out there, and they had a daughter.”
The rector didn’t pause in his story as Lisa looked up in surprise and recognition. “Mabel had never seen that granddaughter. I believe when Mary left, there were some bad feelings. Anyway, over the years, Mabel had come to regret the things she’d said to Mary and wanted more than anything to see her again and meet Mary’s husband and daughter. But she didn’t know how to approach her. Then last year, she received a letter from her granddaughter saying that she and her mother were going to come and see Mabel the next year. Mabel was so pleased. She wanted to apologize face to face. She talked of all the things that she wanted to show her granddaughter. Most of all, she wanted that young lady to know that she loved her.
“I think Mabel knew she was going to leave us when I sat with her that day. She drew me close and made me look into those deep blue eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘Reverend, you promise me that if I’m not here when that young girl comes, you’ll find her and tell her what a fool her Gran was not to tell her that she loved her long ago. You tell her that I kept her baby picture that Mary sent right next to my bed where I could see it every morning and every evening. You tell her to grow up to be as fine a woman as her mother is. But most of all, you ask her to forgive me.’”
Her grandmother loved her! In some ways, it made her death harder to bear, but where there had once been emptiness and heartache, Lisa felt a warm glow of gratitude as she began to cry.
Reverend Lloyd covered Lisa’s hand in his. “Now, now child. It’s all right.”
“But, rector,” Lisa said, practically whispering. “I’m Mabel Jones’s granddaughter.”
The rector looked into her face. “You don’t have to tell me that, dear. Mabel Jones’s blue eyes are looking right back at me.” Then with a smile tugging at his lips, he added, “And you don’t talk like a Bwlchycibau native either.”
Lisa smiled at the kindly old man and said, “Thank you,” as they both stood and walked down the path through the churchyard.

The first thing you can do is talk to them. It may not be easy at first, but it will be worth it. “My dad and I talked,” says a teenage school student I know, “but we never really sat down and had serious talks about what’s going on in my life, about problems I had, or things I wanted to accomplish. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever had a serious talk with my dad was when he was a bishop and had to interview me on my birthday.
“That interview really helped me see that I could improve our communication if I made the effort to help him. Things didn’t change from one day to the next, but since then, he and I both have tried harder to find the time to sit down together once in a while and talk.”

When one asks people about their Christmas traditions, most respond with a description of how they celebrate it by having family gatherings, giving gifts (including money), eating traditional meals or comfort foods of the season, putting up decorations, etc. I remember one year when I was a child, I told my father that that Christmas had been the best one in my life. He asked why I had said that. My foolish response was, “Because I have received so many great toys that my friends will envy me.” He did not respond with words, but my father’s wise lesson was given the following years. That was the last Christmas I received that many toys and no more expensive gifts did I get thereafter. The lesson remains with me, as over time I’ve come to realize that prominently absent in my thoughts and in my foolish response was the mention of our Savior and Redeemer’s birth, His life, and His mission.

When Newel Knight informed his wife, Lydia, that the Saints would have to leave Nauvoo and move yet again, she responded with tenacious faith, saying, “Well, there’s nothing to discuss. Our place is with the Kingdom of God. Let us at once set about making preparations to leave.” Brother Knight had moved his family several times already as many of the Saints had moved from New York to Ohio to Missouri and to Illinois. Lydia Knight’s devoted submission to what she knew was God’s will typifies powerfully the faith of those heroic early Saints. With their faith in mind, the words of a familiar hymn take on added meaning:
Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword;
Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy
Whene’er we hear that glorious word.
Faith of our fathers, holy faith,
We will be true to thee till death!
Though winter’s chill was not yet past, heightened fears of mob attacks and swirling rumors of government intervention compelled President Young to set things in motion to get the Saints under way. He directed the first company of pioneer families to leave Nauvoo on February 4, 1846, a cold winter day. They drove their laden wagons and their livestock down Parley Street—a street that became known as the “Street of Tears”—to a landing where they were ferried across the river to Iowa. Chunks of ice floating in the river crunched against the sides of the flatboats and barges that carried the wagons across the Mississippi. A few weeks later, temperatures dropped even further and wagons could cross the river more easily over a bridge of ice.
Sister Wirthlin and I visited Nauvoo in early March this year. The weather was bitterly cold. As we stood in the chilling wind, looking out across the broad expanse of the Mississippi, we felt a deeper sense of appreciation and gratitude for those Saints as they left their beloved city. We wondered how they ever survived. What a sacrifice to leave behind so much for the uncertain future that lay ahead! No wonder so many tears were shed as the fleeing pioneers drove their wagons rumbling down Parley Street to cross the river with no hope of ever returning to their “City Beautiful.”
Once across the river, they camped temporarily at Sugar Creek before starting their trek west toward the Rocky Mountains. The journey, which historian H. H. Bancroft described as a migration without “parallel in the world’s history,” had begun.
When President Brigham Young joined the departing pioneers at their campsite in Iowa on February 15, 1846, the Lord revealed to him to begin organizing a modern “Camp of Israel.” On the first of March the advance company began its push westward across Iowa. Hardships caused by cold, snow, rain, mud, sickness, hunger, and death challenged the faith of these hardy pioneers. But they were determined to follow their leaders and to do, no matter the cost, what they believed fervently to be the will of God. Their faith was challenged, and for some it faltered in especially difficult times. But it did not fail them. Many were sustained by the assurances they had received in temple ordinances performed in the Nauvoo Temple.
One of the more difficult hardships endured by many of the sisters was delivering their babies under harsh, extreme conditions along the trail. Eliza R. Snow wrote that as the pioneers “journeyed onward, mothers gave birth to offspring under almost every variety of circumstances imaginable, except those to which they had been accustomed; some in tents, others in wagons—in rainstorms and in snowstorms.” Sister Snow went on to record in her journal that she “heard of one birth which occurred under the rude shelter of a hut, the sides of which were formed of blankets fastened to poles stuck in the ground, with a bark roof through which the rain was dripping. Kind sisters stood holding dishes to catch the water … , thus protecting the [little one] and its mother from a showerbath [on its entrance to] the stage of human life.”
What a sacrifice these good sisters made! Some mothers lost their own lives in childbirth. Many babies did not survive. My wife’s grandmother, Elizabeth Riter, was born at Winter Quarters in the back of a covered wagon during a rainstorm. Fortunately, both the mother and the newborn infant survived. With great love for the woman who gave life to her, Elizabeth often lovingly recounted how an umbrella was held over her mother throughout the ordeal to shield her from the water leaking through the wagon’s cover.
Let us never forget the faith of our fathers and the selfless sacrifice of our mothers, those pioneering Saints who set such an inspiring example of obedience. Let us remember them as we strive to be valiant servants in our work to “invite all to come unto Christ” and “be perfected in him.”

Picture this: You sit down to dinner and look around. Gasp! You’re alone at a table with a half dozen of your past and present school teachers. Sitting next to you is Mr. Randal, your fourth period science teacher, and he’s staring right at you. He wants to chat.
Cringing already? Hey, I am, and they aren’t even my teachers.
There’s just something about teachers that makes most of us nervous (even those of us who no longer have to face their pop quizzes and long-essay finals). In fact, they make us so uneasy that the majority of us go through our junior and senior high years without ever getting to know what our teachers are really like, and most of us never even get to say thank you for all they do.
Two groups of LDS youth in the Boston area are doing something to fix that problem. It’s June 1990, and these New England LDS students are inviting their school teachers to “Appreciation Nights” at their local ward houses. The youth are spending an evening eating with, getting to know, and then saluting their teachers. They hope the time together will straighten out some long-standing misconceptions.
The youth of Nashua, New Hampshire, invite me to watch them set up for the following evening’s teacher appreciation dinner, which sounds about as exciting as watching 18 holes of TV golf. But I put some thought into it: a group of kids who would give up a night of summer fun to set up tables and cook for their teachers can’t be all bad.
I’m right.
Dave Eberhard, 17, a tall guy wearing a little black hat that seems too small for his head, says he’s the master of ceremonies for the big night. He looks like he might be a wise guy, but talk to him for a minute and you’ll find he’s articulate and bright—full of positive energy.
He says this is Nashua’s second year in hosting an appreciation night. “Last year’s dinner changed my relationship with my teachers,” he says. “They had always seen me as a class clown, but after they saw I appreciated them they began to notice how hard I really was trying. They looked at me from a different perspective.”
Dave adds that he learned more about his teachers as well. “I found out more about what really goes on after they get out of school. It’s a one-on-one relationship, and it’s not really school related or church related. It’s just you and the teachers out on the night.”
And according to Dave, the teachers loved the attention. “Some actually cried,” he says.

There were times I thought that pursuing my education wouldn’t be worth it.
I’d moved away from my family to attend university. I wasn’t living in a very safe part of town. And with all the anxiety I was experiencing about my safety and my finances, I didn’t feel like I was learning very much.
But here’s what I realized: I wasn’t doing this just for myself. My education was about more than me and my experiences.
I’m from Camotes, a small island in the Philippines. When I decided to attend college to become a teacher, I moved to Cebu, a larger island that was a two-hour boat ride away.
And for a while, I really worried about my safety. There was a lot of drug use and crime in the area I was living in, so getting from my house to campus every day sometimes forced me to be in stressful and dangerous situations, and I didn’t have the protection of my family.
During this time, there was a quote from President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) that changed how I thought about my situation: “Decisions determine destiny.”
I’d been thinking about all of the hard things happening to me, all the things outside of my control. But over time, the thought occurred to me that I’d made this choice—I’d chosen to travel away from my family and get an education.
This realization caused me to consider why I’d made this choice. And the answer came to me quickly: I wanted to be a leader in my branch. I wanted to return to my community with greater knowledge. I wanted to teach the kids on Camotes and encourage them to seek learning opportunities that could help them bless their future communities too. This was the destiny I was working toward.
President Russell M. Nelson once taught: “Don’t be afraid to pursue your goals—even your dreams! There is no shortcut to excellence and competence. Education is the difference between wishing you could help other people and being able to help them.”
Now I’ve finished my degree, and I’m back living on Camotes. I teach children in grades one and two, and I’m also the first counselor in my branch’s Primary presidency, so I get to use my education even more than I was expecting. I know how to be patient with these kids and teach them gospel principles in a way they will understand. Every day I’m grateful that I decided to get educated, despite how difficult it was at times.

Daniela Moreira, a Primary president from Mendoza, Argentina, said that children in her ward worked toward understanding the purpose of the temple. To meet this goal, they visited the construction of the Mendoza Argentina Temple. They also learned how families can be sealed in the temple and later made temple models.

“The activities of the spiritual aspect are those that leave the greatest mark on the little ones,” Daniela said. “They learn to recognize and feel the constant companionship of the Holy Spirit and become familiar with the feeling.”

Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”

The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.

Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.

The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.

The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.

Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.

You will remember a tender story told by President James E. Faust. “As a small boy on the farm … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently pick up the box, go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house.”
President Faust’s voice then filled with emotion as he continued: “I was so insensitive … I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen wood box. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my [sin of] omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”25
More than 65 years had passed. If President Faust still remembered and regretted not helping his grandmother after all those years, should we be surprised with some of the things we still remember and regret?

I once listened to the experience of an engineer who recently had joined the Church. The missionaries had called at his home, and his wife had invited them in. She had eagerly responded to their message, while he felt himself being pulled in against his will. One evening she indicated that she wished to be baptized. He flew into a fit of anger. Didn’t she know what this would mean? This would mean time. This would mean the payment of tithing. This would mean giving up their friends. This would mean no more smoking. He threw on his coat and walked out into the night, slamming the door behind him. He walked the streets, swearing at his wife, swearing at the missionaries, swearing at himself for ever permitting them to teach them. As he grew tired his anger cooled, and a spirit of prayer somehow came into his heart. He prayed as he walked. He pleaded with God for an answer to his questions. And then an impression, clear and unequivocal, came almost as if a voice had spoken with words that said, “It’s true.”
“It’s true,” he said to himself again and again. “It’s true.” A peace came into his heart. As he walked toward home, the restrictions, the demands, the requirements over which he had been so incensed began to appear as opportunities. When he opened the door, he found his wife on her knees praying.
Then before the congregation to whom he told this, he spoke of the gladness that had come into their lives. Tithing was not a problem. The sharing of their substance with God, who had given them everything, seemed little enough. Time for service was not a problem. This only required a little careful budgeting of the hours of the week. Responsibility was not a problem. Out of it came growth and a new outlook on life. And then this man of intellect and training, this engineer accustomed to dealing with the facts of the physical world in which we live, bore solemn testimony with moistened eyes of the miracle that had come into his life.

When I got older I had other fears. I used to fear that the girls wouldn’t like me. Maybe because they didn’t. I wasn’t popular with the girls back when I was a teenager. I used to wonder what I could do to be popular with the girls and I decided to ask some people for advice. When I was a teenager, I had two evil stepbrothers. And I decided to ask them for advice about girls. And they gave me advice. But after I got their advice, I could tell that their advice maybe wasn’t the best. That’s true, I had two evil stepbrothers. They shaped up later on in life. They were a lot older than I was. They used to make me do all the chores around the house. One time I remember there was this special dance and they wouldn’t let me go.

Well, after the failed attempt to get advice from my evil stepbrothers I asked another one of my relatives for advice about girls. And this nice person, hoping to make me feel better, said, "If a girl likes you, she ignores you." Now, I’m not sure that is right. If that was the case, then 100% of the girls in my high school must have been crazy about me.

What I did is I eventually met this girl who very soon became my best friend. I married my best friend. My wife and I met as she almost ran me over with her car. The first time she stared into my eyes she saw a look of abject horror. You know, the disturbing thing about the whole episode was that I was on the sidewalk at the time. I have often wondered why that occurred. I have several theories as to why that happened. My first theory is a scientific theory that says that when you are driving, if you see something you find attractive, you steer toward it. That is my first theory as to why she almost ran me over. My second theory is a psychological theory. Psychologists talk a lot about the subconscious mind, you see, and I believe that as she was driving by me she thought subconsciously, "If I can’t have that man, no other woman will." That’s my second theory as to why she almost ran me over.

So you see, I should not have worried so much. The Lord might have sent this girl to almost run over me knowing that I would marry her. We are always fearful about things that probably should not preoccupy us very much. We should never let these fears make our life miserable.

When the stake president put forth a challenge, the Ventura [California] First Ward priests responded. Concerned about reverence at Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women activity night, President Joseph F. Chapman suggested that each of the priests come dressed in the Explorer dress uniform.

The priests gladly accepted the idea and planned projects to raise money for the navy blazers, center-crease gray slacks, white shirts, and polished shoes. Gone were the jeans-T-shirt-sneakers look and several inches of hair from the heads of many of the priests.

Explorer Matt Tonnies feels that “there’s been a lot less goofing around” since the uniforms have been worn. “We’re also singled out because of our dress. Other Scouts look at us and say, ‘Hey, why can’t we do something like that?’”

Matt says the foremost goal of the group is to fulfill honorable missions. There is one priest who isn’t sure if he wants to go on a mission, so the challenge of the rest of the Explorers “is to see that he makes this his goal,” said Matt.

I was just finishing my farm work when Mom called. The cows had been taken to the pasture, and the rabbits, chickens, pigs, and horses were all fed. The three cans of milk were on the trailer ready to be taken to the dairy.
I was fifteen years old then, and it was 1936, one of the hard years for our big family of thirteen. One of my brothers was on a mission, and eight of us were in school. The rest were home keeping Mom busy.
Mom said, “Jay, I’ll have to keep you out of school today so you can get a ride to the PFE shops where your father is working. I must get this letter to your father. It’s very important or I wouldn’t ask you to do it.” The Pacific Fruit Express shops were repair stations for railroad engines and cars. My father worked there to help support the family financially.
Mom handed me the envelope. It must have been a very important letter to justify keeping me out of school even for one day. “I’m sorry to do this, Jay,” she said, “but there isn’t any other way to get this letter to him.” She couldn’t telephone Dad because there were no telephone lines to our farm.
The place where Dad worked was about twenty-four kilometers away. I walked three kilometers to the highway in the beautiful, early summer air and soon had a ride to the next town. After walking through town, I got another ride that brought me to the dirt road leading to the gate of the PFE shops. I stepped out of the car, thanked the driver, and began the twenty minute walk to the gate, surveying as I walked the place Dad had so often talked about—the place that made him so dirty and so tired, the place of work that Mom had said was so important to our large family.
With new understanding I thought, This is why Dad is only with us evenings and Saturdays and Sundays. This is why it’s Mom who teaches us how to milk cows, to stack hay and grain, to irrigate the crops, to harness the team and make fences, to build hen houses and all the other things that must be done on a farm. This is also why Mom is so good at teaching us the gospel and telling us Bible and Book of Mormon stories while we work with her. Dad was here. And his work was important and hard.
As I came to the gate, I could see large buildings on both sides of the many railroad tracks. The noise of the railroad cars banging into each other as they were hooked together was loud. There was also noise from steam engines, signal bells, horns, and men working with air hammers and other railroad equipment.
Suddenly a loud siren sounded, and all the other noise went away. It was noon—lunch time. Men appeared from all over and I could hear hundreds of voices. How will I ever find Dad in all of these people? I wondered.
I went through the gate and walked toward the closest work area I saw, thinking I might find someone there to ask for directions. There were big stacks of materials and equipment around an open area. As I looked across the clearing, I recognized Dad immediately. I stopped and stood still and it felt as if there were not another person in sight. In a world of our own, it felt as if it were just Dad and me, and I will always be grateful for what I saw. Dad was sitting on the ground with his back to one of the stacks of materials, his legs stretched out, and his hat by his side. With his lunch box between his knees, hands folded in his lap, and head bowed, he was speaking thanks to God for what He was giving him—and for many other things, I’m sure because of the time it took and the feeling I had as I saw him praying. I stood silent and watched intently while the message sank deep within me: There’s nobody here for him to prove anything to. Dad really does believe. When he finished and looked up, he saw me at once. A humble smile spread over his face, and as I approached him tears filled his eyes. “Well, Jay, it’s so nice to see you,” he said. “Come and sit down, son.”
To this day, I don’t know what the message was that I delivered to Dad, but I’ve never forgotten the one he gave me.

As a small child in Midwolda, in the Netherlands, I walked every Sunday to a little evangelical church in our village. My parents didn’t go to church or even speak of religion, but I loved to hear the minister’s beautiful stories about Jesus Christ. How I loved God! But I couldn’t understand the minister’s description of God—so great that he could be in all places at once, yet so small that he could live in my heart.
It wasn’t until I was seventeen that I heard a song that helped me understand the true nature of our Heavenly Father. I had just met the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and my future husband and I had gone to our first cottage meeting in Amersfoort, where we then lived. There I heard the hymn “O My Father,” whose words would change my life:
O my Father, thou that dwellest in the high and glorious place,
When shall I regain thy presence, and again behold thy face?
In thy holy habitation, did my spirit once reside?
In my first primeval childhood, Was I nurtured near thy side?”
(Hymns, number 139.)
I would never forget that song and the loving Father that it described. However, my future husband’s father asked us to stop seeing the missionaries, and we were not baptized.
But three years later, married and living in Rotterdam, we found the missionaries at a street meeting and asked them to teach us in our home. In September of 1928, my husband and I were baptized. On our way home after the baptism, I felt like the happiest person in the world.
In the years to come, we had our share of hardships. But all our experiences showed us the goodness of our Heavenly Father and taught us of his personal care for us.
When our first child was about a year old, she became so ill that the doctors gave us little hope that she would survive. Through that agonizing time of watching her suffer, I felt so close to God that I could almost feel him. We had great faith in the priesthood, and our daughter recovered after she had received a priesthood blessing.
Even during the horror of World War II in the Netherlands—with my husband in hiding, bombs exploding, cold and hunger—the Spirit of our loving Father kept us close to God and close to the Saints. One day when I was serving as Relief Society president, I went with my ten-year-old daughter to visit an older sister who lived alone. When we arrived at Sister Smit’s small home she was reading. She told us she was so hungry that she had decided to read the Bible, because spiritual food could fill her, too.
In those days food was rationed, and in my pocket was a coupon for a loaf of bread for our children. I felt so concerned for this hungry sister that I gave my daughter the coupon and sent her to buy bread for Sister Smit. On the way home, I wondered how I would tell my children that I had given away the bread. I knew I had done the right thing, but now what was I going to feed them.
Upon arriving home, I found the answer. Some family friends in Zwolle had arranged for a letter to be hand-carried to us by their nephew. With the letter were three bread coupons.
Over the years, our Heavenly Father has continued to bless us in miraculous ways. In 1947 our daughter was called to serve a mission. Although we had very little money, and our family would greatly miss the income from her job, we agreed to support her. Never was our family so blessed as during our daughter’s mission. Occasionally someone would tell me that they wished their child could serve a mission, but that they didn’t have the money. I always told them that we didn’t have the money either, but that the Lord blessed us so that somehow we were able to support her each month.
As I look back over my eighty years, I feel that among my greatest privileges in life has been to know that I am a child of God, and that he will guide me through mortality if I will stay close to him. And if I am worthy, he will be waiting to greet me in his “holy courts on high.”

Some years ago while visiting in Australia, I accompanied the mission president on a flight to Darwin to break ground for that city’s first Latter-day Saint chapel. We stopped for refueling at the small mining community of Mt. Isa. There we were met at the terminal by a mother and her two children of Primary age. She introduced herself as Judith Louden and mentioned that she and her two children were the only members of the Church in the town. Her husband, Richard, was not a member. After four years as Church members, they had never lived where there was an organized branch of the Church. We held a brief meeting, where I discussed the importance of holding a home Primary session each week. I promised to send from Church headquarters the home Primary materials to assist them. There was a commitment to pray, to meet, to persevere in faith.
Upon returning to Salt Lake City, I not only sent the promised materials, but also a subscription to the Friend.
Years later, while attending the stake conference of the Brisbane Australia Stake, I mentioned in a priesthood session the plight of this faithful woman and her children. I said, “Someday I hope to learn how that home Primary succeeded and to meet the nonmember husband and father of that choice family.” One of the brethren in the meeting stood and said, “Brother Monson, I know Richard Louden, the husband of that good woman and father of those precious children. Prayer and Primary brought him into the Church.”