Gospel Story Finder

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

David Dunn told the story of a man walking down the sidewalk past a little girl sitting on the doorstep of a house looking very dejected. He said to her, “That’s a very pretty red dress you are wearing, young lady.”
She looked up at him and smiled and said, “Oh, thank you,” and her face lit up at this compliment. Later, when he passed her house again, she brightly said, “Hello—Man!”6
He had found a friend. It is easy to find friends as we pass this way if we acquire the attributes that attract friends. Friends are some of our most priceless possessions.

“Oh no,” Michael moaned to himself. “Not another errand!” He knew that he shouldn’t feel this way. He loved his father. But ever since his father’s accident, it seemed like all he ever did was ask Michael to run errands for him.
“I’m coming.” Michael could hear the irritation in his words and guiltily hoped that his father would hear it, too, and respond with a “Never mind.” But there was no reply, so Michael slowly made his way to his parents’ bedroom.
Even though it had been over four months since the car accident, it still seemed strange to see his father in bed during the daytime hours. Michael knew that it was difficult for his father to lie there day after day, but it was difficult for him, too. He had been eager to run errands for his father during the first few weeks. But lately it was getting harder to give up what he wanted to do. Again today he had had to tell his best friend, Brad, that he couldn’t come over after school because he was needed at home.
It didn’t help that in a few days Michael would turn twelve. There would be few presents and no party with his friends. His mother and father had said that they were sorry—they didn’t have the time or the money this year for a friend party. It would have to be a family-only party.
Life before the accident seemed like a distant dream. Money had not been a real problem then. Now Michael worried more and more about what would happen to him and his family. His mother had taken a part-time job at a bakery to help make ends meet. Michael knew that as the oldest child in his family, he had a responsibility to help as much as he could. Lately, though, that responsibility seemed to weigh more and more, even though he did the same things: caring for his younger siblings, mowing the lawn, vacuuming the carpet, washing clothes and dishes, helping prepare meals when Mom worked late, and running errands for Dad.
As Michael went into his parents’ bedroom, the afternoon sun spilled through the window and across the multicolored quilt tucked around his father. His father turned the quilt back and slowly pushed himself up against the pillows behind him. “Michael, come here a minute, please.” Even though his face showed the strain of sitting up, he smiled at Michael. “I have an errand for you.”
Michael could feel the irritation building again. He didn’t want to run any more errands.
“Please get my scriptures for me. They’re on top of the dresser.” Michael’s father pointed toward the far end of the room.
Michael had always liked the smell and feel of the leather cover of his father’s worn scriptures. He handed them to his father and was about to leave, when his father said, “Hold on a minute. I want to say something to you. I know that these past four months have not been easy for you. You’ve given up a lot to help take care of me and the rest of the family. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have done and how much I love you.” As Michael felt his irritation begin to seep away, his father continued. “There’s something else I want you to know. Even though you’ve given up many things, I’ve noticed that you’ve acquired others that are more important.”
“Huh?” Michael could think of several things that he’d given up, but nothing that he had gained during the past four months. “What things?”
“Well, every time you run an errand for me, you come back with something for both of us.”
None of what his father was saying made any sense to Michael. Maybe the accident caused some brain damage, he thought with concern.
Michael’s father saw his look of bewilderment and laughed softly. “Let me explain. I’ve seen you grow more these past four months than at any other time in your life. Every time you went on an errand, you came back with more maturity, more talents, and more skills.” He held up the scriptures. “The Savior taught that He only did the things His Father sent Him to do. His whole life was an errand for His Father. He willingly gave up His will to do the will of His Father. Because of that, He received everything His Father has.* In a few days, you’ll receive the Aaronic Priesthood and will be ordained a deacon. Do you know what that means?”
“I’ll be able to pass the sacrament, and I’ll go to priesthood meeting instead of Primary.”
“That’s right. But it means much more than that. It also means that you will be on the Lord’s errand. If you always do what He asks of you, even if it means giving up everything you have, what you receive in return will be far more valuable than any earthly possession or entertainment.”
Michael left the room with a completely different feeling than he’d had when he had entered. Pondering what his father had said, he realized that not all the changes in his life had been too hard—not if they made him a better person.
From downstairs, he heard his mother call, “Michael, can you run an errand for me?”
This time, he responded quickly and with joy.

Chris is keenly aware that, as the oldest, he is setting an example for his six young brothers. He has been offered scholarships to play football at several big-name universities. But they want him to commit to at least one year of college before leaving on his mission. Since Chris turns 19 soon after he would start college, he refuses to postpone his mission and has turned down the scholarships. He has faith that he’ll be able to regain a scholarship when he gets back. His parents were introduced to the gospel by missionaries when he was a baby, and his entire life he has anxiously looked forward to serving.
Editor’s Note: Since this article was written, Chris received his mission call and is serving in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

A little old lady at a rest home turned to the old man next to her and said, “I can guess your age.”
“You can’t,” he replied.
“Yes, I can,” she said. “You go take a bath, shave, brush your hair, put on a nice clean shirt and a tie, and shine your shoes, and I’ll tell you.”
The old man was gone for about an hour. When he returned he was neat, clean, hair brushed, shoes polished, and in his suit. She said, “Now you go stand up against the wall.” He did.
He said, “Now, how old am I?” She said, “You’re 89.”
He responded, “That’s right, but how did you know?”
She said, “You told me yesterday.”

I have permission from one of my daughters, Kristine Bicker, to share with you today an extract from some of her writings on this subject. Perhaps the spirit of it will convey a feeling to you that will be more meaningful than my own expressions would be. I quote from her writing:
The top drawer of my mother’s desk is always untidy. It is filled with unimportant odds and ends that, by nature, accompany a busy life. As I sorted through the clutter I smiled to myself at the treasures this drawer has absorbed through the years. There were old sales slips from Auerbach’s, yellow no.2 pencils—some without lead or erasers—a couple of bobby pins, a plastic straw with one end chewed flat, and a little red spiral notebook. The notebook fell open in my hand. The writing, tiny and crimped, looked unfamiliar, and I wondered who had filled these pages with such an unsure hand.

After reading a line or two I knew the mystery of the ledger. It had belonged to my late Grandmother Johnson. She had written in crisp, incomplete sentences about visiting some friends in Rexburg. There were a number of paragraphs about a trip to Europe with Uncle Harold. As I skimmed the pages I found some sketchy gardening tips copied from an old issue of Better Homes and Gardens and a recipe for zucchini-oatmeal bread—useless because there were several words I couldn’t quite decipher. There was also a shopping list that read, “Two pairs of stockings, one good blouse, five pounds of flour, stamps at post office, twine to tie up roses.”

Across from each entry was a corresponding price notation, and then subtractions and additions. The noting disclosed obviously that this particular list maker had been mindful of her expenditures and prudent.

I had not known this woman, my grandmother, very well. She brought ten spirits into the world—my mother being next to the youngest. It followed then that by the time I was old enough to be aware of Grandma Johnson she was almost too old to be aware of me. I remembered only bits and pieces of experiences shared with her. Riding through the inky blackness of Yellowstone Park at night to get to Grandma’s house and then being carried half-asleep up the steep sidewalk, past the profusion of rose bushes, to be put in bed with my sisters in the blue bedroom is one of my recollections.

My grandmother fed us peaches, homemade bread with preserves, and lots of soup. Kool-aid was a staple, sodas a luxury. She baked lots of spicy cookies, but hid them very carefully on the top shelf in one of her big china bowls lest we ruin our suppers. Her kitchen door had a very tight spring and always, always banged shut with a resonating smack, after which my grandmother always, always said, “Don’t slam the kitchen door.” (As if we could have prevented it from closing that way.)

In Grandma Johnson’s house there was a painting of a forest fire that hung on a shadowy wall of the upstairs landing. The picture was dark and ominous, with brilliant, orange flames licking hungrily at the skeletons of black trees. It terrified all of us children. To keep from becoming too frightened, we ran past it without looking.

My grandmother liked to dress in pretty suits with soft, crepe blouses. She loved to wear hats. My sisters and I played with reckless abandon in the bandboxes full of hats on the floor of the closet in the blue bedroom. We would pose in pretty cameos in front of the vanity that had been my mother’s when she was a little girl. After an hour or so, Grandma Johnson would call up the stairs: “You girls aren’t in my hats, are you?” And we would call back down: “No, Grandma, we aren’t in your hats.” We knew she was too unsteady to climb up all those steep stairs to find us out.

One afternoon, however, without any warning, she appeared in righteous indignation at the bedroom door, catching us in a profusion of organza net and straw flowers. We didn’t know how she climbed those stairs so quietly or gotten past that fire painting, but the joy went out of playing dress-up, and we didn’t bother her hats again.

Grandmother Johnson had a passion for giving and getting pretty cards. She especially like the ones with cutout borders, artfully covered with sketches of flowers. We read and reread the verses inside that intimated thoughts about love and friendship. She kept those cards with messages special to her displayed for months on top of the desk and buffet in her dining room.

I caught myself smiling at these fragments of memories, and turned again to the page of the shopping list. In one corner I could make out faintly a date, and realized, after a moment or so, that she had composed a little budget during the semester for which she had paid the money owed for my tuition at college. She had also secured my student housing. I felt a twinge of uneasiness as I remembered how cavalier I had been about her generosity. I had experienced a degree of gratitude, but being young, I suppose, expected good things as a matter of course.

I wondered now, studying her ciphering, if perhaps my grandmother had passed up a special little hat, or neglected to put in a new rose hybrid because her spare dollars had been used to purchase my books. I regretted not telling her I was sorry about playing in her Sunday hats and for not catching the kitchen door fast enough. I hope I told her that I loved her because I just discovered how much she must have loved me.

I am grateful for that feeling deep inside that she isn’t gone forever. I think there are many discoveries we will want to share. Perhaps she will remember the missing words in the zucchini-oatmeal bread recipe, and she can tell me how she got past so quietly that forest fire painting on the landing of her stairs to find us in her hats. [Kristine L. Bicker, Memories of My Grandmother, used by author’s permission]

Unlike my friend who did not heed the direction to bail out, on another occasion one of my other fellow pilots did. He had made a mistake and glanced off the top of a mountain on a low-altitude bombing run. Although his F-4 Phantom II jet was destroyed, this pilot had pulled the yellow handle and bailed out while careening through the air, and he lived. Belief strong enough to apply his knowledge had saved this pilot.

“As small boys, my brothers and I used to wear our hair short, as short as the clippers would cut it. I think Uncle George was about the only one who had enough money to buy a pair of clippers in those days. So we’d always go up to Uncle George’s to get our hair cut, and Ezra T. was the biggest boy, so he’d always cut our hair. He’d start at the back and come right over to the front. Then he’d go by one ear over to the other ear. Then he’d get the mirror and show us how we looked, and we had four patches of hair. He’d say, “Is that the way you wanted it?” We’d tell him no, and then he’d always discover that the clippers wouldn’t cut anymore. He’d tease us for a long while, and then finally the clippers would start working and he’d finish our hair.

“I guess I thought that the Good Fairy would wash the milk pail,” Paul grumbled sleepily to himself the next morning when he found the unwashed bucket where he had left it in the sink. He scrubbed the bucket and strainer until they were as clean and shiny as Grandma had left them, then headed out to milk the cow. He breathed deeply the fragrant early morning air as he walked and thought how very different Sunday was here than at home. A cow that had to be milked and livestock requiring feed and water every day made some changes in even the most carefully planned “day of rest.”
Paul milked with hands still sore from the night before, but at least Clarabelle cooperated a little better. She stepped around some, but she didn’t step on him or kick the bucket. “Someone should invent a cow that you don’t have to milk on weekends,” Paul told her as he turned her loose into the horse pasture.
“Since the calves are a pretty good size now,” Grandpa had explained, “they get the morning milk, and we get the night milk.” So Paul fed the cats meowing around his feet, then divided the remaining milk between the two red calves. With an eye on his watch, he hayed them and grained the pigs and made sure that all the animals still had water.
The horses came when he whistled. Ginger was limping, and one knee was swollen, but she really didn’t look too bad, considering how she had looked just a few hours before.
He detoured to open the chicken coop door on the way to the house. This time he washed the milk pail right away and set it in the dish drainer.
Since he had neglected his bath the night before, he took one now, then dressed in his good clothes. He had time for a leisurely breakfast and was on his second bowl of cold cereal when Grandma called.
After she told him that Grandpa had reacted badly to the anesthetic the doctors used when they set his leg, Paul decided not to tell her about the horse just yet. She asked him to bring her a change of clothes and her scriptures after church and told him where to look. He couldn’t find the blouse that she had described, so he picked one that he liked and put all the items into a paper sack.
He was sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, the sack beside him and his scriptures in his hand, when Brother Ross arrived. This, he thought, is hardly how I expected my first Sunday in Wyoming to be.
There were a few faces that he recognized from visits other summers, but mostly he was surrounded by strangers as he entered the chapel. He was welcomed warmly, however, and it felt good to be where he knew he should be.
He watched with interest as the deacons passed the sacrament. This was the first time all year that it wasn’t his responsibility, and, fleetingly, he felt a little left out. A number of people stopped him in the hall between meetings and afterward to ask about his grandfather.
He and Brother Ross stopped at the hospital after church, and Paul gave the sack to Grandma. She looked inside briefly, nodded, and thanked him. Paul thought that she looked as tired as he felt—if that were possible.
Grandpa, pale and groggy, lay with his stiff, cast-covered leg propped up on a pillow. He squeezed Paul’s hand, smiled at him, but had little to say.
As they walked down the hall later, Grandma explained, “The doctor says that when he gets over the problem from the anesthetic, he should recover quickly. We think he’ll be home in a few days.” She hesitated, then said almost pleadingly, “If you’re going to be all right, I’ll stay here until his mind is clear enough for him to fight his own battles.”
“Everything’s under control,” Paul assured her. “He needs you worse than I do—at least until the roast runs out,” he added with a grin.
Grandma chuckled and gave him a hug.
“My family’s gone and I’m a lousy cook, or I’d invite you to dinner,” Brother Ross explained as he took Paul home.
“That’s OK. Why don’t you come have a roast beef sandwich with me? There’s a big roast in the refrigerator, and I was too tired last night to make much of a dent in it.”
After Brother Ross left, Paul carefully put away his good clothes and flopped across his bed. Despite the bright sunlight in the room, he slept until nearly chore time.

At the time of the commencement of work on the Kirtland Temple my great-great-grandfather, Artemus Millet, was a wealthy construction contractor living in the area of Toronto, Canada. He was also a non-member of the Church. It has been said that he was surprised to find Brigham Young at his door saying that he had been sent by Joseph Smith to convert him to the Church and that he was to leave his business and come to Kirtland to assist in the construction of the temple. Brigham also said that Joseph wanted him to bring $1000 so they could buy supplies. Artemus was baptized, left his business in the hands of employees, and went to Kirtland where he worked tirelessly on the temple. Accidents and fatigue weakened him physically, he gave liberally of his funds and in the end had little of economic worth left. His wife died leaving him with four children. In short he, along with numerous others, gave everything he had to the building of the temple. He later followed the Saints to Nauvoo where he again worked on the temple, giving all that he had and more. Is there any doubt in your mind that Artemus loved the temple? It is probable that most of you have ancestors about whom a similar story could be told. It almost seems improper to even raise the question: do you think they loved the temple?

Sharing sorrow is what has strengthened Lee Hing Chung and his wife, Kumviengkumpoonsup. Six years ago, he lost an arm in an industrial accident. Sick and unemployed, he became despondent. Support from his wife, children, and other members pulled him through.
Today hope shines in his eyes as he speaks of the present and the future, including being sealed to his wife and children in the Hong Kong Temple. “Before we joined the Church, I was primarily concerned with making money,” he says. “Now I have different priorities. There are many people out there who have lots of money, but they don’t have love. We have found that.
“Many people at church are the only members in their families,” he continues. “When I attend church on Sunday with my family, I am so grateful that we are together and that we can be together forever.”
As he speaks, he gestures toward a picture of the Hong Kong Temple hanging prominently on a wall. “One day I was reading the scriptures and looked up,” he relates. “The first thing I saw was that picture, and I experienced such a strong, peaceful feeling from the Holy Ghost. We pray every night that we can be together as a family. The presence of the temple reminds me to be good, to be disciplined, to be worthy.”
Although still unemployed, Brother Lee is at peace with his circumstances. “There are challenges in life, certainly,” he acknowledges. “But I have faith in Jesus Christ. We will be all right.”
In addition to preparing for the temple, the Lee family has been busy doing missionary work. One neighbor family has already joined the Church through the family’s missionary efforts, and a second family is investigating. “The parents told us they were impressed with our children and asked why they were different,” Sister Lee explains. “They said the children were respectful, obedient, and cooperative with each other. We told them it was simply the Church.”

“When I first learnt about the Church, I had no idea of a temple. At church, they always talked about it but there were no regular temple visits, because the closest temple was in South Africa, about a four-hour drive away. Two years later, a missionary couple from Utah took the initiative of taking members to the temple every fortnight. I was the first one to attend, along with the Relief Society president.
“After my first temple visit, I was a little confused but at the same time I wanted to learn more. From that time the branch started to make regular visits to the temple, and I always made sure I went along with the group.
“As a single widowed mother, I learned that I could be sealed to my deceased spouse for time and eternity. That gave me peace and comfort and reminded me of what the missionaries had taught me—that families can be together forever.
“Being sealed to my deceased family members was one of the most memorable, comforting, and peaceful experiences I have ever had.
“Visiting the temple regularly has also helped motivate me to do family history work for my deceased family members. These things have strengthened my faith and given me a stronger testimony about our Heavenly Father and His compassionate love.

Jennifer handed Mom a piece of paper after church. She listened as her mother read the note: “Jennifer has been asked to give a talk in Primary next Sunday, February 14.”
“Mom, will you please help me?” Jennifer asked.
“Of course I will,” Mom said. “You can think and pray about what you would like to say. This week we can work on your ideas.”
“Thank you, Mom!” Jennifer said. She was a little scared, but she knew she could do it with help from Heavenly Father.
The next day as Jennifer cut out paper hearts to make valentines, an idea popped into her head. She ran to find Mom and handed her the paper heart.
“Do you think I could make some hearts to use in my talk?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Let’s write a list of things that make your heart happy. Then we can find pictures of those things to put on the hearts.”
Jennifer had fun cutting out pictures and gluing them onto the hearts.
On Sunday morning, Jennifer knelt to say a prayer. She had done all she could to get ready for her talk. She asked Heavenly Father to help her remember what to say.
The Primary children sat and listened as Jennifer gave her talk:
My heart is happy because I have a family that loves me. We can be an eternal family.
My heart is happy when I choose the right.
My heart is happy because I know Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that Thomas S. Monson is a prophet today.
My heart is happy when I come to Primary and sing Primary songs.
My heart is happy when I read the scriptures. I know the Book of Mormon is true.
My heart is happy because Jesus Christ is my Savior. I know that He loves me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was a young man, my parents joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We knew that the missionaries had been teaching them, but my parents had taken the missionary lessons alone.
After this surprising announcement, my brothers and I began to listen to the missionaries as well, and they each received the message of the Restoration with gladness. Although I was curious, my heart was not into changing my life. I did, however, accept the challenge to pray about whether the Book of Mormon was the word of God, but I did not receive an answer.
You might ask why Heavenly Father did not answer that prayer; I certainly wondered. I have learned since that the promise made by Moroni is accurate. God does answer our prayers about the truthfulness of the gospel, but He answers them when we have “a sincere heart” and “real intent.”1 He does not answer just to respond to our curiosity.
May I return to my personal story. Eventually I began to be sincere. I remember when the missionary who was teaching me asked if I was ready to be baptized. I replied that I still had some questions. This wise missionary told me that he could answer them but that I would have to answer his question first. He asked me if the Book of Mormon was true and if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I told him that I did not know, but I wanted to know.
My questions led to increased faith. For me, the answer came not as an event but as a process. I noticed that as I did “experiment upon [the] words” and began to “exercise a particle of faith,” the Book of Mormon became “delicious to me” and it did “enlighten my understanding” and truly did “enlarge my soul.” Eventually I had that experience the scriptures describe as a swelling within your breast.21 It was at this point that I desired to be baptized and to commit my life to Jesus Christ.

I would like to tell you of a stake conference I was assigned to attend. It was a reorganization; the stake president and his counselors would be released, and a new presidency would be called. The stake president was young and had served wonderfully for almost 10 years. He was a spiritual giant, but he was also an administrative giant. In my personal interview with him, he told me how he had delegated much of the responsibility for the stake functions to his counselors and to the high council and had thus freed himself to interview those who needed encouragement. Individuals and couples were invited to come to his office. There he got to know them, counseled with them, and invited them to do better, to put their lives in order, and to receive the blessings available to those who follow the Lord. He helped them by putting them in the care of a capable leader, a teacher who helped them to understand the beauties of the doctrine. Then he told me that in these interviews he would often ask if they would like a blessing. “I have placed my hands on the heads of many members of the stake,” he said.
The next day in the general session of the stake conference, I doubt I have ever seen so many tears—not because they felt the president should not be released, but for the deep love of a young stake president who had blessed their lives. I felt prompted to ask, “How many of you have had the hands of the president on your heads?” I was amazed at the number of people who raised their hands. I thought to myself at the time, “How many of these people will bless the name of this great man, not only now but throughout the eternities?” Yes, these will be the great-grandfathers who will, because of this loving leader, leave a legacy of generations of thousands who will call him blessed.

He was a staunch supporter of the missionary program and invited the elders home as often as possible. Stephen was thrilled the day his brother, James, received his mission call. He enjoyed the preparations and being able to travel to Salt Lake City to take James to the Missionary Home there. Stephen firmly believed he would serve a mission too, and he studied diligently to prepare himself for it. His patriarchal blessing stated that he would go on a mission. He didn’t expect to do such a great thing as tracting, but he was sure there was a place for him.
Each day found him a little weaker. His body grew more and more distorted until he was bent almost double and spent his time, awake and asleep, draped over a chair. He didn’t complain; he accepted things the way they were.
Writing and directing the New Westminster Ward roadshow was his last big venture. The Vancouver British Columbia Stake produced the combined roadshows from all the wards. When the judges came back with their verdict, Stephen’s roadshow had won “Best All-Round Entertainment.”
As the applause died down, the stake MC approached the microphone. “Stephen Farrance, writer and assistant director of the winning roadshow, died this morning. We’ve kept this sad news until now we didn’t want to influence the judges. We’d like to congratulate the cast and crew for going on tonight, with special mention to Stephen’s family, who did such a fine job. We dedicate the roadshows to Stephen.”
“How could his family be here tonight?” someone asked, and the reply was, “After living with Stephen, what else could they do?”
“I’d like to bear my testimony and thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings … thank him for the sure knowledge that I will receive a perfect body in the resurrection, for my knowledge that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’m thankful for my membership in this church …”
Stephen had the blessing of a keen mind, a lively sense of humor, and the ability to see problems for what they were. He put all these things together and accomplished a full life, all 18 years of it. But he was not superhuman, neither a paragon of virtue nor a saint, but a warm, loving, normal human being with ups and downs, likes and dislikes.
About the time when many young LDS men are entering the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City at the start of their two-year missions, Stephen Farrance completed his mission here on earth. Did Heavenly Father send him out from the realm of pure love to give us an example to follow? Are we not all, to some extent, crippled in mind, if not in body, and in need of each other’s strength? Was this his mission?
In a letter to Stephen’s brother, James, their former stake president wrote: “Stephen had such a great desire to follow you into the mission field. Now he has received his call. He is eminently prepared to preach the gospel and will yet fulfill a great mission. But on his mission he will not have the heavy burden of his affliction. His spirit now stands straight and tall, and he can walk forth to preach the gospel with power and conviction, even as you are doing. Be of good cheer, Elder. Your brother is about his Father’s work, even as you are.”
A memorial service was held for Stephen at the Vancouver stake center in British Columbia. Instead of sending flowers, friends contributed to a fund in his name set up at his former high school. Each year a graduating student who has “shown outstanding contributions in the area of helping other young people—one who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in the spirit of a true humanitarian”—will receive $100 bursary and the “Super Steve Humanitarian Award.”
The Vancouver British Columbia Stake has inaugurated a “Stephen Farrance Memorial Sportsmanship Award” to be presented to the seminary team that shows the most concern for each other, attention to rules, sincere effort, and good sportsmanship during the annual scripture chase.
At the memorial services, members and nonmembers gathered to remember Stephen. A School friend spoke on Stephen’s contributions to the school and to his fellow students. He spoke of his many talents, his desire to serve, and his example to the student body. His priests adviser talked about Stephen’s Church accomplishments, his enthusiasm for any outing, even if he knew he couldn’t participate, and his concern for the priesthood brethren. And the bishop spoke about Stephen’s spiritual achievements. He reminded those gathered of the great, strong testimony he had, and how he had made use of every opportunity to bear it. He talked of Stephen’s desire to serve the Lord in any capacity he could. For the first time members and nonmembers, brought together through love of Stephen, became aware of many sides of Stephen’s remarkable character.
Stephen lived 18 years. He achieved much, and he was a great example to many of us. Although he lived with a crippled body and suffered much pain, he died in the manner that the Savior has promised to the faithful: “Those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them.”

Another elder entered the mission just after I arrived in San Antonio. He came from a large family. The father found that he needed to pick up a part-time job to help support his son. This was not quite enough, and so the sweet mother went to work in the school lunch program so that she could be home when her children were home. Even with this additional money, the elder fell a little further behind each month. A choice friend occasionally gives me several $100 bills to share where they are needed. When I interviewed this elder, I asked him how he was doing financially. His eyes clouded up, and he said was really trying, but his folks weren’t sending him quite enough. He said, “President, I haven’t been wasting. I haven’t eaten anything for three days, trying to cut back.” Then he said, “Even my little sister is helping. She received a one-dollar bill for her birthday, and she put it in an envelope and sent it to me because she thought I needed it more than she did.” Then he wept openly. I reached into my shirt pocket, and extracted two crisp $100 bills, and said, “A choice friend of mine asked me to give these to you.” He put his head down in his hands and was overcome.

Jenny Archer, Author When Jenny writes the story of her life for a school assignment, she tells about her birth on the banks of the Amazon. She exposes her great-grandfather as a bloodthirsty pirate. She reveals the dark secrets of Great-Great-Grandmother Buffalo Belle Archer, the notorious stagecoach robber and opera star. And she unmasks Horrible Hortense, her evil twin sister. It is clearly an A+ effort. So why does her teacher send a note home to her parents?

Last Sunday, Ruby and I attended a sacrament meeting of a ward here in central Salt Lake. The meeting was most interesting because in that ward there is some affluence as well as people who are living in halfway houses. Just before the testimony meeting, a young lady walked up to the bishop on the stand, holding a little baby in her arms, wanting the baby to receive a blessing. The bishop stepped down and took the little baby, and the baby was blessed.
Later on during the testimony meeting, a little seven-year-old boy, with his five-year-old sister by the hand, walked up to the pulpit. He helped fix a little stool there for her to stand on, his five-year-old sister, and he helped her as she bore her testimony. And as she would falter just a little, he would lean over and whisper in her ear, this little loving seven-year-old brother.
After she finished, he stood on the stool, and she stood watching him, and he bore his testimony. She had that sweet expression on her face as she watched him. He was her older brother, but you could see that family love and relationship with those two little children. He stepped down from the stool, took her by the hand, and they walked back down to take their seat.
Near the end of the testimony meeting, when there were a few moments for me to speak, I asked the young lady who had brought her child up to be blessed if she would come up and stand by me, which she did. In the meantime, while the testimony meeting was going on, I asked the bishop, whispering into his ear, “Where is her husband?”
The bishop said, “He’s in jail.”
I asked, “What is her name?” and he told me her name.
She came up and stood by my side, carrying the little baby. As we were standing at the pulpit, I looked down at this little precious baby, only a few days old, and this mother—the mother of that little daughter, who had brought her to receive a blessing at the hands of the priesthood. As I looked at the mother and looked at that precious little child, I wondered what she might become or what she could be. I spoke to the audience and to this young mother about the proclamation that was issued five years ago by the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve—a proclamation on the family—and of our responsibility to our children, and the children’s responsibility to their parents, and the parents’ responsibility to each other. That marvelous document brings together the scriptural direction that we have received that has guided the lives of God’s children from the time of Adam and Eve and will continue to guide us until the final winding-up scene.
As we talked about it and as I looked at that beautiful little baby, I thought of last summer. Ruby and I were up in Idaho for a short visit, and we met some people from Mountain Home, Idaho—the Goodrich family. Sister Goodrich had come to see us and had brought her daughter Chelsea with her. In part of the conversation that we were having, Sister Goodrich said Chelsea had memorized the proclamation on the family.
To Chelsea, who is now 15 years old, I said, “Chelsea, is that right?”
She said, “Yes.”
I said, “How long did it take you to do that?”
She said, “When we were young, my mother started a program in our house to help us memorize. We would memorize scripture passages and sacrament meeting songs and other types of things that would be helpful to us. So we learned how to memorize, and it became easier for us.”
I said, “Then you can give it all?”
She said, “Yes, I can give it all.”
I said, “You learned that when you were 12 years old; you’re now 15. Pretty soon you’ll start dating. Tell me about it. What has it done for you?”
Chelsea said, “As I think of the statements in that proclamation, and as I understand more of our responsibility as a family and our responsibility for the way we live and the way we should conduct our lives, the proclamation becomes a new guideline for me. As I associate with other people and when I start dating, I can think of those phrases and those sentences in the proclamation on the family. It will give me a yardstick which will help guide me. It will give me the strength that I need.”