Gospel Story Finder

Yes, the older and more established members of the Church play a most important role in helping you, the new member, come into the kingdom and find your way. A recent convert, Alan John Nubeck, reflects on the recent conversion of his family and the role older members played.
“One of the greatest things that helped us to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was a meeting on a Thursday evening before our baptism. We were met by a family who they found had a lot of things in common with us. They talked about our pending baptism and explained things to us.
“When we went to our baptism, they greeted us at the door and said they were going to attend our baptism. It was quite an assurance for me to enter the waters of baptism and look up and see faces of friends.
“After joining the Church, they helped us in church meetings by sitting beside us with other families, and the spirit we felt from them was tremendous. They also helped to explain the various doctrines of the Church and helped us with our scripture studies. They fellowshipped us on weekdays and weekends and especially in family home evenings and helped us to design a special family home evening for our family. After fast and testimony meetings at church, we would attend a meeting at their home in which they invited other members of the Church to meet us. Even now they still remain our companions and still explain things we don’t understand.
“I know through this fellowshipping that this is the true Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Levi didn’t have his mind on Primary that Sunday. He was still angry with his older brother, Jason. Jason had just gotten his driver’s license. Last week, he had run over Levi’s bike, even though Levi had carefully parked it at the side of the garage. He had saved his own money to buy the bike. It had taken a long time.
“I’m really sorry. I’ll fix it up just like new,” Jason promised.
Levi looked at the crumpled fender. “It won’t be the same.”
Jason apologized again, but Levi refused to listen. “If you weren’t such a crummy driver, you wouldn’t have wrecked my bike.”
“I told you I’d fix the bike.” Jason didn’t sound so sorry now.
Levi stomped off, locking himself in his room for the rest of the afternoon and coming out only when Mom insisted he join the family for dinner.
That was last Wednesday. Levi had held onto his grudge for four days. It bothered him, being angry at Jason. Still, he didn’t feel like forgiving his brother.
After opening exercises and singing time, Sister McClure, the second counselor in the Primary presidency, presented sharing time to the older children. Starting with Levi’s class, she passed around a small paper cup. “Take one and pass it on,” she said.
Levi reached inside the cup and found it filled with pebbles.
“Put a pebble into your shoe,” she said. “Now try walking in place.”
Levi lifted up his foot and brought it down again. The little stone felt funny against his foot. He tried to move it to a more comfortable spot, but it kept rubbing against his foot.
“Now reverently walk around the room,” Sister McClure instructed.
Some of the children started giggling but stopped when Sister McClure reminded them to be reverent. A couple of the younger children started to limp and bent down to remove their stones.
Levi kept the pebble in his shoe. It began to feel a lot bigger as he walked.
After a few minutes, Sister McClure told the children to take their seats and remove the pebbles from their shoes. Once more, she passed around the paper cup and asked the children to put the pebbles inside.
Then she explained, “Those little pebbles are like the feelings we have when we don’t forgive someone who has offended us. They can start out small but then feel bigger and bigger.”
“What if the person who did something to hurt us isn’t really sorry?” Levi wanted to know.
“Sometimes we need to forgive, even when the other person doesn’t apologize or repent,” Sister McClure responded.
Sister McClure told a story about a time when the Prophet Joseph Smith forgave one of his friends who had betrayed him. Levi felt a lump in his throat as he listened to how the Prophet had forgiven William W. Phelps, even though Brother Phelps had conspired with the mobs who persecuted the Church and its leaders.
Levi thought about Sister McClure’s lesson during the rest of Primary. Following dinner that evening, when his parents asked family members what they had learned in church, Levi told them about the pebbles.
“How did your foot feel by the time you took the pebble out?” his dad asked.
“My foot was a little sore,” Levi admitted. “Sister McClure compared walking around with a pebble in your shoe to carrying a grudge and refusing to forgive someone who offended you.”
“It sounds like one of Mom’s object lessons,” his little sister, Annie, said.
Everyone laughed. The whole family knew that Mom liked to use objects in the lessons she gave for family home evening.
Before he went to bed, Levi knocked on Jason’s door. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk,” he said when Jason opened the door. “I know you didn’t mean to run over my bike.”
“Hey, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Jason pulled Levi into a bear hug and lifted him off the floor. “What do you say we work on the bike together tomorrow after school? I’ll ask Dad if we can use his tools.”
“Great!” Levi said, and as he went to his room, he thought, “I really do feel great!”

In late 1979, Agbortabot Ako Moses of Mamfe was first introduced to the Church by a friend. Intrigued by what he heard, Ako wrote to the International Mission asking for additional information and to request the establishment of the Church in Cameroon.
“The letter was received by them,” Ako wrote later, “and a favorable response sent to me.” Included in the letter were the addresses of the mission presidents in Ghana and Nigeria and a promise that he would soon receive a copy of the Book of Mormon. When the book did not arrive, Ako wrote again, asking if another copy might be sent. “I think it has got lost on transit,” he wrote. “I have been expecting this noble book with much anxiety.” Shortly after, a copy arrived. “I am studying it very carefully and prayerfully,” he wrote. “I enjoy reading it much.”
Over the next 12 years, Ako wrote frequent letters to an ever-increasing circle of Church contacts outside Cameroon. Occasionally, he made long journeys to meet Church leaders on the border of Nigeria and Cameroon.
Finally, in September 1991, Paul D. and Arlene Payne, senior missionaries in the Nigeria Lagos Mission, arrived in Yaoundé. On September 28, Ako received a phone call from the Paynes inviting him to attend a meeting there, nearly 800 kilometers (500 miles) away. “There, we had the first meeting and were appointed to posts of responsibility in the Church,” he recalled. Although he still had not been baptized, Ako gladly accepted the assignments and, to assist the missionaries in establishing themselves in Cameroon, frequently made the nearly 12-hour journey between Mamfe and Yaoundé, changing vehicles 16 times each way. On May 8, 1992, Ako was among the first local converts to be baptized.

Illustration by Dean MacAdam
I’m one of those people who like winter. But I don’t like actually feeling cold.
It was just my luck that my stake put together a reenactment of the birth of the Savior. Outside. At night. During the coldest Christmas in years. In Canada. I played the part of an angel in this Nativity story, so at least my puffy robe could hide my snow pants, mittens, and scarves.
But nothing, not even the puffy robe, could keep my feet warm. My mom took me shopping for thicker boots, and we bought the warmest-looking pair of shoes we could find: a pair of orange boots with red laces. These boots looked like they would survive an Antarctic expedition—and in this record-breaking winter, I needed that. But I felt like the most ridiculous 17-year-old Nativity angel ever. What kind of heavenly messenger wears orange boots?
The night of our final dress rehearsal, I walked out onstage trying to pull my robe down to cover my boots. No matter what I did, they still stuck out of my puffy angel costume.
Luckily, the other angels and I stood half-hidden behind a backdrop for most of the pageant, which meant nobody could see my shoes.
But there was a part at the end when all the characters in the Nativity story—shepherds, Roman soldiers, Wise Men, townspeople, and angels—came in from every side of the outdoor theater to kneel before the Savior.
This part of the pageant was supposed to be a peaceful moment for the audience and cast members to reflect on the Savior’s birth. But for the first two nights, I dreaded it. All I could think about was how I’d have to kneel right in front of the crowd, and they would be able to see my ugly, bright-orange boots. In that moment, being an angel felt more embarrassing than holy.
On the third night, I was waiting backstage with all the other angels, and I suddenly felt excited to share this final Nativity scene with the audience. I mean, this was it—the audience was going to see angels come in from all sides to kneel in front of the infant Savior. How incredible is that?
I forgot all about my boots as the narrator recited Isaiah 9:6, which was my cue: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”
As I walked out, everything else fell away. I felt like one of the heavenly angels—those powerful, glorified beings who were present at Christ’s birth.
The other angels and I knelt beside soldiers and put comforting hands on shepherds’ shoulders. We all showed our humility, reverence, and love for this tiny newborn baby. And I felt it—the infinite love that my Savior had for the townspeople, the tax collectors, and me. I knew this Child—and the redemption He brought—was the most important gift the earth had ever received.
When I walked out on stage during the next performances, I didn’t feel like just a girl in a puffy costume and orange boots. I was a part of the “ministering of angels” that testifies of the Savior (Moroni 7:25), even in my own small way. I didn’t care anymore if the audience could see my shoes—because if my orange boots were showing, it meant I was kneeling in front of my Savior.

My daughters, ages 8 and 10, seemed to be growing farther and farther apart. As their mother, I ached inside to see the bickering between them and the mean looks they often directed at each other.
During this time I was praying earnestly to the Lord to help me with my own weaknesses. I prayed that He would help me learn what I needed to learn about charity, and I was led to some beautiful passages of scripture.
One night things came to a head with my daughters. I lost my temper and, after ranting and raving at them, stormed outside to cool down and think. After a few minutes, the Spirit began to soften my heart, prompting me to go inside and apologize to my eldest daughter, who had caught the worst of my temper.
As I entered her bedroom, I saw my 10-year-old daughter kneeling beside her bed, weeping. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I don’t know what to do.” She told me she wanted to pray and read her scriptures so she would feel better, but she couldn’t because she felt so bad.
When she told me how sorry she felt for her part in our quarrel and then said I was not to blame, oh, what shame I felt. We talked a while and then turned to the scriptures, where I read to her about charity, “the pure love of Christ” (Moroni 7:47), and shared some of the things I had learned. At that point her younger sister looked in the room, and we invited her to join us. I then explained, in words an eight-year-old could understand, what we had read about charity.
After I had finished, both girls turned to me with big eyes and expressed a desire to be filled with this great love spoken of in the scriptures. We then knelt and, as Mormon counseled, humbly asked the Father to fill us with this love (see Moroni 7:48).
Touched by the Spirit, we could not help but weep. We rose from our knees, embraced, and expressed our love for each other. At that moment I saw an eternal sisterhood and friendship begin to bloom between my daughters, and I was comforted.
Their relationship has continued to grow since then. They have a greater desire to work out their differences, show more patience, and share their belongings. I am grateful for their righteous desires and efforts.
I will always treasure that experience, and I pray that there will be more like it as we continue to strengthen the bonds of charity and love in our home.

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit; with her baked goods, her quilts and afghans; with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 A.M., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”
Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 A.M. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

As he grew older, however, Hal discovered a major difference between himself and his father.
Henry Eyring encouraged his sons to study physics and to prepare for a career in the sciences. Hal dutifully majored in physics at the University of Utah, but one day when he asked his father for help with a complex mathematical problem, it became apparent to Henry that Hal did not share his passion.
“My father was at a blackboard we kept in the basement,” President Eyring recalls. “Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hal,’ he said, ‘we were working at this same kind of problem a week ago. You don’t seem to understand it any better now than you did then. Haven’t you been working on it?’ ”
Hal said he had not. He then admitted to his father that physics was not something he constantly thought about. His father paused a moment and then, in tender words that released his son to pursue his own professional passion, he said, “You ought to find something that you love so much that when you don’t have to think about anything, that’s what you think about.”

When my wife was a young girl, her grandpa took the grandchildren with him to the farm to put powder on the potatoes to kill the bugs. It was fun doing it together. What’s more, they got to ride the old workhorse after they were finished.
It was fun to help get the cows into the barn so they could be milked. Although the children didn’t do much milking themselves, they watched and heard the milk splatter into the bucket. Sometimes a well-aimed squirt would fill the open mouth of a waiting cat. The children laughed even more when Grandpa squirted the warm milk toward their open mouths, and the giggles increased when he missed and splashed their faces.
The children helped harvest the corn and, when canning started, they helped the adults cut off kernels. Everyone had a feeling of accomplishment and they felt secure just knowing that they were adding to their year’s supply of food.
After the children had helped with the picking and pickling of cucumbers, they received a reward of some large ripe ones to cut open, hollow out, and sail as boats down the ditches.

To assist scientists in their study of terrestrial (land) plants and animals, a number of excellent zoos and botanical gardens have been developed. And to study aquatic organisms that inhabit freshwater lakes and streams, many large aquariums have been built. However, attempts to create similar large facilities for the study of marine or saltwater creatures have always met with frustration; that is, until recently. For on October 15, 1980, the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C., opened its doors to a new 3,000-gallon piece of transplanted ocean that is home to over 200 species of marine plants and animals, including about twenty different types of living corals. And that was a real accomplishment, because living corals had never before survived for any length of time in an aquarium completely isolated from the sea.
When my family and I read of this feat, we decided that we would try it too. Our first step was to write to the Smithsonian scientists for advice. We waited anxiously for a reply; but after a couple of weeks without hearing from them, we decided that they probably thought we were not serious about it. So we tried another approach. I had to attend a meeting of scientists at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, so I took two of my young sons with me. While there, we visited as many marine biologists as we could, getting tips on how to proceed. After some discussion with them, the best advice they could give us was, “Don’t try!” Well, their negative advice only heightened our desire to take up the challenge.
Since our home in Tempe, Arizona, has a very mild climate, we decided to construct an outside pond rather than an indoor tank. Our first step was to dig—and dig and dig. Every member of the family helped at one time or another, as did many of the neighborhood children. We not only had to excavate a basin for the water, but also a much deeper hole for an underwater viewing chamber.
We started near the end of November, and about a month later the excavation was complete, including the viewing chamber and a twenty-foot arching bridge that spanned the two-lobed basin at its midpoint. We waterproofed the sides of the pond by laying five layers of black polyethylene plastic over the soil. Then came several trips to the dry bed of a nearby river, where we collected thousands of pounds of smooth, round rocks to put on top of the black plastic. These rocks were then covered with fine sand—fourteen tons of it.
Last of all, a friend of ours helped us install a pump and sand filter to circulate and purify the water. Initially, all this system consisted of was an intake port at the bottom of the pond and a return port beneath the center of the bridge. Later, however, we expanded it to include a return port at the deep end of the pond and another at the shallow end. Then, since the shallow end had an island in the middle of it, we built up two ridges of river rocks between this island and the pond’s banks to create a tidal pool into which the shallow return port would empty its water.
Lining this pool with crushed seashells created another filtering system, as the water entering the tidal pool had to flow through these shells and rocks to reach the bottom of the pond where the pump withdrew it.
In addition to water impurities, another problem we had to worry about was temperature. It seemed likely that the pond would probably get too cold in winter and too warm in summer. About that time we read where the Steinhart Aquarium in San Francisco had just installed the first solar panels ever to moderate the temperature of a saltwater tank. So as in the case of the Smithsonian Museum, we again asked, “Why not us?” And two weeks later we had our own solar heating and cooling system ready to go.
The last bit of construction was a four-by-six-foot piece of plywood supported by four redwood supports in the deep end of the pond. It protruded about six inches above the water surface, and to it we strapped several long palm fronds to provide a place of shade and refuge for those sea creatures that shun the sight of humans. Then, a twelve-inch diameter plastic pipe was positioned at the bottom of this area and partially covered with rock and sand to create a cave for extremely reclusive creatures to hide in.
Finally, everything was ready. It was time to fill the pond and hope that there were no leaks. Since we wanted to know how much water it held, we checked the water meter to our house and then turned our hose into the basin. Several hours later when the water reached the top of the surrounding banks, we calculated a volume of 4,000 gallons—larger by a good margin than even the Smithsonian’s system.
In the midst of our initial success, however, we still had some reason for concern. Water began to seep into the observation room from around the viewing port. After a few hours, though, it subsided, probably due to the wood swelling when it became wet. Fortunately, it has not leaked since.
The first creature to inhabit our pond was a small dime-store turtle, secretly supplied one night by one of the neighborhood children. Then came fifty black mollies from a local aquarium shop. All of them did extremely well as algae began to grow in the pond, and several different types of aquatic insects appeared. Still, the pond was just a pond. We had yet to add the synthetic sea salts that would start it on its way to becoming a true marine ecosystem.
Join with us next month and read about this conversion process and the first of our several trips to Mexico and the Gulf of California, where we collected specimens for our “backyard ocean.”

Six-year-old Taylor loved stickers—big ones with lots of colors, and little ones that you could barely see. Sometimes he put them on papers or notebooks. And sometimes he put them on himself. Once he put an orange sticker on his arm, and a blue one on his chin. Another day he put a dog sticker on the toe of each tennis shoe. Today Taylor had a new sticker. He put it on his shirt, right in the middle of his chest.
Megan, his older sister, noticed the new sticker. “Where did you get that one?”
“Off the new socks Mom bought me yesterday,” Taylor said. “Isn’t it great?”
Megan leaned close enough to read the sticker on her brother’s shirt and began to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Taylor asked defensively.
“It’s your sticker. It’s so—”
Taylor covered the sticker with his hand. “What’s the matter with it?”
Mom heard the discussion and came into the room. “What’s going on here?”
“Megan’s making fun of my sticker.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Megan responded. “I promise. It’s just so cute! Look at what it says, Mom.”
Mom lifted Taylor’s hand from the sticker and read aloud, “Stain-resistant sole.”
“What does it mean?” Taylor asked.
Mom answered with a smile, “It means that some kind of protection was put on the bottom of your socks so that they won’t get dirty as easily.”
“Don’t you get it, Mom? Taylor has a stain-resistant soul! S-o-u-l!” Megan chuckled again.
“I don’t want people laughing at me,” Taylor said, starting to rip the sticker off.
Mom reached out to him. “We’re not, Taylor. You see, soul can be spelled two ways. One way, s-o-l-e, means the bottom of your foot—that’s what the sock that this sticker was on protects. The other spelling, s-o-u-l, means you—your body and spirit together. So when Megan said that you have a stain-resistant soul, that’s good. It means that you are trying your best to do what is right and keep your soul—your body and spirit—clean.”
Taylor smiled at Megan and decided to leave the sticker on. “May I go outside to play now?”
“Sure, but come right home for dinner when I call you.”
Taylor ran out the back door and saw his brother’s skateboard. His brother didn’t like other people riding it without his permission, but he was away for the weekend. Great! Taylor thought. He put one foot on the skateboard, then thought of his sticker and took his foot off the board. He wanted to stay a stain-resistant soul.
He looked up and saw his best friend, Colby, running out of his garage. “Colby—wait up!”
“You’re just in time,” Colby said excitedly. “I’m going to light some firecrackers.”
Taylor stopped. “My mom says I’m not supposed to light matches unless a grown-up’s with me.”
“She won’t know. Come on—it’ll be fun!”
Taylor started to follow his friend. Then he thought of his sticker. Would lighting firecrackers keep my soul stain-resistant? No. Maybe there’s something else we can do. He said, “I don’t want to do that, Colby. Let’s play on the trampoline.”
Colby liked Taylor’s idea, so the two boys jumped on the trampoline until Taylor’s mom called him. Taylor hurried home.
“Wash your hands,” Mom reminded him as he rushed into the kitchen. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water. He saw Taffy, their cat. She hated water, and Taylor loved to tease her by splashing water at her. But just as he aimed his wet hands at her, he remembered his sticker. He couldn’t tease the cat and stay a stain-resistant soul, so he dried his hands, and ran to the kitchen.
His dad was just coming in from the other direction. “How’s my big boy?” Dad gave Taylor a hug. “Hey, what’s this on your shirt? Another sticker?”
“Oh, that’s a special sticker,” Mom said.
“He got it off his new socks,” Megan added.
“Stain-resistant sole?” Dad asked. “Why is that so special?”
“Don’t you get it, Dad?” Taylor blurted out. He thought about how he had resisted riding on his brother’s skateboard without permission, how he had resisted playing with fire at Colby’s house, and how he had even resisted teasing Taffy. “I’m a stain-resistant s-o-u-l!”

When the weather got warmer, there was time for some mountain climbing with Wallace and LeRoi, the three young men striking out for the “highest point” in the mountains above Brigham City:
“We climbed up some of the roughest places I had ever been over. I took the lead after half of the way had been traveled. LeRoi shot a snake over five feet long. There were large, deep banks of snow, some over five feet deep. Large towering masses of stone began to get very common. I walked over one large bed of rock, jumped from one stone to another. Large, deep holes, many over 25 feet to the bottom, were a common thing amongst this immense mass or field of rock. We rolled large boulders over many precipices, and they seemed to shake the earth on their destructive path, tearing up trees by the roots. I arrived at the top first, 25 minutes ahead of the others. … We could see Logan City and the beautiful white Logan temple from our lofty view. We also saw the small towns in all directions around. I left the top for home 2:10 after writing a few notes down. I ran down a path, flying homeward, arriving one hour ahead of the boys. I enjoyed it very much; wore out my shoes.”

This morning a brown bird flew in our window at school. It almost got tangled in Rosalie’s long black hair. Rosalie screamed, and then all of us screamed. I guess our screaming scared the poor bird, because it started flying around really fast, not looking where it was going. It bumped into the ceiling light, then banged against the chalkboard.
All of us felt sorry for it, and we were afraid it would get hurt if it kept flying around that way. Then I had an idea. I didn’t know if it was a good idea or not, and I almost didn’t suggest it. But no one else had any idea at all, so I said, “Let’s go out into the hall and leave the bird alone.”
Our teacher, Mrs. Rubin, said, “Good idea, Anna.”
We all got up and tiptoed into the hall. Mrs. Rubin closed the door gently. We sat cross-legged on the floor and waited without making a sound.
At first we heard the bird fluttering and flying and crashing into things. Then it got quiet in the room. Our teacher motioned to me to look through the door glass to see what was happening. I stood on tiptoe and peeked.
The bird was sitting on the back of a chair. I could see how fast its heart was beating through the thin part of its feathers. It looked around, saw the open window, and flew toward it and sat on the sill for a minute. Finally, with a swoop, it was gone. I think it needed time to be alone so that it could decide what to do. Sometimes my mom leaves me alone when I get upset about things. I guess that’s why I knew how to help the bird.
Anyway, when we went back inside and sat down to do our morning board work, it was nice to think about the bird at home in the sky.

In February 1853, to the pioneer congregation huddled in shawls and wraps against the chill, Brigham Young recalled, “I scarcely ever say much about revelations, or visions, but suffice it to say, five years ago last July I was here, and saw in the Spirit the Temple. … I have not inquired what kind of a Temple we should build. Why? Because it was represented before me. I have never looked upon that ground, but the vision of it was there. I see it as plainly as if it was in reality before me.”

According to Wilford Woodruff, President Young’s address was “a most thrilling speech of about thirty minutes” that was “heard distinctly in all parts of the vast assembly.” It is clear that Brigham Young could hardly contain his joy as he began: “We have assembled on one of the most solemn, interesting, joyful, and glorious occasions, that ever has, or will transpire among the children of men, while the earth continues in its present organization, and is occupied for its present purposes; and I congratulate my brethren and sisters that it is our unspeakable privilege to stand here, this day, and minister before the Lord, on an occasion which has caused the tongues and pens of prophets to speak and write for many scores of centuries.”

Then Heber C. Kimball, First Counselor in the First Presidency, struck the frozen ground “with a pick … and President Young took out the first turf.” He closed the meeting with a triumphant blessing of the Saints, to which all assembled responded, “Amen!” The congregation then “rushed to the hole to get a chance to throw a little dirt out.” Some “one hundred and fifty laborers, I should judge continued the work,” wrote Lorenzo Brown, another participant in the events.

“I had some difficulty in school because of sickness. As an incentive for me to try really hard in school, my dad, who was the bishop, told me that on my twelfth birthday he would take me to Salt Lake City to attend a conference. Going to Salt Lake City seemed like going to the end of the world! I remember going to that conference and sitting up in the balcony on the north side and seeing the General Authorities and realizing that they were real people. When I look back on that and then think of going to conference now and sitting in one of those red seats, I know that there was no way then that I could have thought of myself in my present position. I think if we could have some idea of what the Lord has in mind for us, we would probably have a lot more confidence in ourselves as we grow up. No matter how humble your circumstances, how far away you live, or what the size of your town is, believe that the Lord has something special in mind for you.”

A modern parable portrays a farmer who had a wheat crop that surpassed any he had known before. According to the account, he could think of nothing but the treasures he could buy with the money from his crop. Every day he would visit his fields, gloat over the wonderful sea of golden grain, and then come home and proudly tell his family how rich he would be.
This farmer had a little boy who was ill and who begged his father to take him to the fields so that he could see this vast expanse of ripening wheat. The father consented, bundled his son up, and took him out. Absorbed in the treasure that lay before him the father did not immediately notice that his son was no longer by his side. Some time passed before he noticed the child missing and began searching about in the wheat, which was taller than his boy. Not finding him, the frantic father rushed to the village to summon the help of his neighbors. All rallied to his call, formed a huge circle by joining hands, and walked slowly forward, trampling the dense stalks until the body of the boy was found. Brokenhearted, the father mourned over the death of his son who was so dear to him. He realized the greater worth of one individual over the worth of monetary possessions. (Sidney H. Alexander, Jr., “Today’s Crises,” Vital Speeches, 1 Jan. 1963, pp. 185–86.)

You take these pumpkin seeds, Brose. Plant them and take good care of them. Who knows—when pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need!”
It seemed to Brose that even her eyes smiled as Granny handed him the little bag of seeds. The seeds were his! Not Jeremy’s, not Willie’s, but his, his very own! He was pleased that Granny had given them to him instead of to his older brother.
Brose took care of the pumpkin patch, all right. In fact, he did it so well that it began to bother Pa. “Every time I need you, Brose,” he complained, “you’re in that pumpkin patch. Why, the weeds in the rest of the garden could grow as high as cornstalks, and you’d be out there lifting up pumpkin vines, trying to find another weed to pull. Well, at least I always know where to find you.”
This second year in the Salt Lake Valley was proving to be about like the rest of his nine years, Brose decided. Being in the middle, a boy could scarcely move either way. No one paid him the attention that they did Willie, who was only two and a half and who had hair the color of the brightest sunset over Great Salt Lake. Why, even strangers would stop Willie and ask his name. All they ever said to Brose was, “Is he your brother?”
When Willie did something wrong, no one made a big fuss because Willie was still so young. But when Brose did something that Pa didn’t like, Pa would say, “Brose, you’re big enough to know better!” And whenever it came to deciding which boy would get the best jobs—like riding the pony and herding the cows on the east bench—Pa would say, “Wait up a spell, Brose. You’d best help Ma with the wash and let Jeremy do the herding this year. You’re still a mite small for that job, and Ma can use a little more help than Trudy can give her.”
Brose didn’t give up, though. He wanted Pa to know that there were lots of the good jobs that didn’t have to be left for his older brother to do.
One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
Brose jumped and snatched the card away from the flames. “Sorry, Ma.”
Ma reached over and took the wool from him. “You’d better let me finish that,” she said kindly. “You can help Trudy with the knitting.”
Brose nodded and moved over to Trudy. He watched her fingers go quickly over the needles.
“Show me,” he said.
Trudy smiled. “I’ll try, Brose. But don’t blame me if you get ten thumbs in the way again.”
Brose grinned, and the knot inside him began to loosen a little. Maybe he couldn’t drive the team or play the fiddle, but there were other things he could do. And maybe, if he kept trying, someday he’d find one that was just right for him.
(To be concluded.)

During my youth, my father had a stable job and made a good living. However, he was addicted to alcohol, and this affected his family life. One day, a building was completed in my neighborhood near our house, and many speculated on its use: a school, a hospital, a church?
It was a building of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My father was invited there and he went despite the mockery and ridicule of his family members. Eventually my father was baptized.
From that moment on, we noticed a change in his character: To our astonishment, he stopped consuming alcohol and tobacco. He often read a book that later turned out to be the Book of Mormon. After my father was baptized, he invited us to join him in his new Church. The other members of my family were reluctant to join. I had always been close to my father and decided to go to church with him.
After my baptism, my two brothers and sisters joined the Church. My mother was later baptized as well.

Ruth’s baptism in December 2001 marked a shift in their family focus. With that shift came spiritual strength and blessings that have guided them to this day.
“We were sealed in the temple on June 28, 2003,” Richard says. “Because of that, many blessings have come into our lives. Our first two children were sealed to us, and our next two children were born in the covenant. Our children are a blessing.”
Richard explains that serving faithfully in the Church has brought harmony into their home: “My wife and I are yoked together equally. We have faced challenges and trials, but we have been able to get through them united. We believe in the same things. Being sealed in the temple, we know that if we endure faithfully, the Lord will help us.”
Attending the temple has changed their family. “When we were sealed in the temple, things changed radically,” Ruth says. “Our spiritual strength has grown.”
Richard agrees: “For our family, it has meant greater family unity, knowing that the family bond, which ultimately is the beginning and end of everything, gives us the strength to move forward. In life there are always challenges. But with the focus that the temple gives us, we can face the future in a different way. Being able to share these blessings—and especially to help other families do the same—brings great joy to our lives. I feel greater commitment in our home.”

One day I was walking in downtown Fukui when two young men walked up to me. One of them didn’t look Japanese, but he spoke Japanese when he introduced himself.
I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Japanese. Do you speak English?”
He answered, “Of course! I’m American!”
The young man started speaking English, which I had learned in school. He told me he and his companion were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They talked briefly about Jesus Christ and invited me to church. I hesitated but finally agreed to go.
The first meeting I attended was a fast and testimony meeting. I came late, and as I walked into the chapel, a young woman was crying and talking about how the gospel helped her with her problems. After listening to her and to some of the other members, I realized that all of them had problems. They weren’t perfect, and they knew it. But I could also see they had something strong inside them. Their faith in God was helping them. With that kind of faith, I thought, maybe I could overcome my problems, too.
I continued attending church, and I pondered often what I learned there. I also read the Book of Mormon. One day I accepted the invitation to ask God if what I was learning was true. As I prayed, something strong touched my heart, and I thought, This is the right way. I already believe in God. It’s time to follow Him.
As I continued to pray and attend meetings, the Spirit continued to guide me. Finally I told the elders I wanted to hear the discussions. I wanted to follow God and return to His presence one day. I was baptized on 21 June 1993.
As a member of the Church, I found new strength in meeting the challenges of life in Japan. And after preparing earnestly, I was called on a mission. To my surprise, I was called to serve in São Paulo, Brazil. I was very excited about sharing the gospel in my homeland.
When I look back at my old life, I realize how blind I was. We can go through life the right way or the wrong way. At first I chose the wrong way. I knew God existed, but I wasn’t ready to follow Him. Then the gospel touched my life. Now I know that following our Savior is the only way to true happiness.

Although President Benson loved horses and would always admire a good horse more than a good car, he was excited when his father purchased the family’s first automobile. “It was a 1915 Dodge. It was of solid, substantial construction, but the suspension wasn’t very good in those days and it bounced along like a hay wagon. There were very few cars in the community. Uncle John Dunkley was the first one to get a car. The children would all gather around after Sunday School, to see him turn the hand crank to get it started. There were no paved roads anywhere in our part of the country.

“Occasionally Father would let us drive to a distant town for a basketball game, dance, or other entertainment. One Saturday we drove to Logan. There is a slight hill to the south of Logan, and I drove our car to the limit this particular Saturday and got the speed up to about eighty-two kilometers per hour. When I reported this to Father and to the people back in the Whitney Ward, they were shocked to think I had dared to drive at that terrific speed and seemed to question whether the car would actually go that fast or not. I finally had to get evidence from some of the other boys who were with me to confirm my claim, which was the highest record of speed known in the community at that time.”