Gospel Story Finder

Another guide, a professed atheist, on about the third day really warmed up to the group. Sitting up near the front of the bus, she became a little intimate in her conversation; and she confided in us that not quite a year ago her husband had committed suicide. She told us how depressed she had become, how immersed in total despair. She even contemplated taking her own life, but she did not, perhaps for the sake of her little child.

Then Sister Simpson, who was sitting by her, said, “Well, what do you think of death?”

Her face grew somber and she said, “Darkness. Blackness. It’s nothing; it’s the end. I’m afraid of it.”

Sitting across the aisle was Dennis Seeley, returned from the Taiwan mission; and he said, “Did you know that your husband still lives?”

For the next twenty minutes, Dennis Seeley explained to her the plan of salvation. He would have stopped at any moment had she expressed resentment or any disinterest; but instead we saw a young lady with her mouth open, with tears on her cheeks; and we heard this young lady say, “I have never heard anything like this before. You don’t know what you’ve done for me.” She will never be the same again, and it happened in the front of a bus as we rode through this Communist bloc of nations.

I hope we are reading the Book of Mormon with our children regularly. I have discussed this with my own children. They have shared with me two observations. First, persistence in reading the scriptures daily as a family is the key. My daughter in a lighthearted way describes their early-morning efforts with mostly teenage children to consistently read the scriptures. She and her husband wake up early in the morning and move through the blurry mist to grasp the iron railing that lines their staircase to where their family gathers to read the word of God. Persistence is the answer, and a sense of humor helps. It requires great effort from every family member every day, but it is worth the effort. Temporary setbacks are overshadowed by persistence.
The second is how our youngest son and his wife are reading the scriptures with their young family. Two out of their four children are not old enough to read. For the five-year-old, they have five finger signals to which he responds in order for him to participate fully in the family scripture reading. The signal for finger 1 is for him to repeat, “And it came to pass” whenever it appears in the Book of Mormon. I have to admit that I love the fact that the phrase appears so often. Incidentally, for the interest of young families, finger signal 2 is “And thus we see”; fingers 3, 4, and 5 are chosen by the parents based on the words contained in the chapter they are reading.
We know that family scripture study and family home evenings are not always perfect. Regardless of the challenges you face, do not become discouraged.

I don’t remember the exact words I used when I told my bishop that I had decided not to serve a mission. But I remember well his disappointment and the next question he asked me: “Do your parents know what you’ve decided?”
Of course they didn’t know; I hadn’t discussed my decision with anyone. As I left the bishop’s office that day, I thought, “Whew, I’m glad that’s over.”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t been taught the gospel. Our family was very active, I attended all my meetings, and I had graduated from seminary. I’m sure everyone assumed that I would go on a mission.
I was living at home, attending a nearby junior college, and trying to find a job. My hair was long, in the “hippie” fashion of the day, so it was difficult for me to find work. As my hair grew longer, tension grew between my father and me. When he told me to get a haircut, I left the house and spent three days with a friend. My return home without a haircut was my way of showing him that I was going to do as I pleased.
Several ward members mentioned to me that my decision not to go on a mission had broken my parents’ hearts. My church attendance slipped as I began to feel that the adults in our ward disapproved of my attitude and my hair length. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that they had prayed numerous times for something to happen in my life that would help me find myself.)
When I did attend church, I attended elders quorum meetings, though I had not been ordained an elder. One Sunday morning the elders quorum president said, “We would like to call you to be a home teacher. Will you accept the call?”
Shocked, I said yes.
“Your companion will be Bill Brothers,” he continued.
As soon as I left the building, I began to plan how I could get out of this commitment. Just then Bill Brothers walked over to me. We were about the same age, and I had known him since our days together in Primary.
“Guess we’re going to be home-teaching companions, aren’t we?” Bill asked.
“I guess so,” I acknowledge glumly.
“Why don’t we show the guys in our ward how home teaching should really be done?” he said.
That thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Yes! We would show the men in our ward how home teaching should be done! We would do it better than any of them, and maybe that would silence the criticism about my attitude and my hair. Bill and I decided that the first thing to do was to ask the fathers in the two families assigned to us what they would like us to teach to their families.
Bill made the appointments. I assumed that each father would ask us to teach his children about getting along with each other or some other basic topic—but I was wrong.
“Well, boys,” said Brother Smith, “our family has been trying to read the Book of Mormon. Since our children are fairly young, it is sometimes hard for them to understand what we read. I think it would be great if you could tell us the basic stories from the Book of Mormon in chronological order.”
When we left the Smith home, Bill suggested that we visit the Smiths more than once a month. Bill was leaving on a mission in about three months and wanted to tell all the Book of Mormon stories before he left.
Bill also suggested that we start with the book of Ether, since it was first chronologically. He would give the story of the first half of Ether, and I would do the second half. I had thought this assignment was going to be easy, but now I knew I would have to spend some time preparing. I unenthusiastically agreed to do it.
Just before our first visit, I quickly read over the last part of Ether and hoped I would remember enough to get by. However, as we met with the Smiths, a sweet spirit of gentle anticipation filled the room. I felt embarrassed that I was not as well prepared as Bill, and I left determined to be prepared on our next visit.
Over the next two months, I read the entire Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just so I could tell the story to the Smith family. Soon, however, I began to ask myself, “What if this is really true?”
My view of the world began to change as I learned eternal principles from Nephi, Lehi, and Jacob. When I read of Alma’s prayers concerning his wayward son, Alma the Younger, I understood my parents’ anguish over me. I felt the spirit of Helaman as he wrote of his faithful stripling soldiers, and I wondered if I would have been as courageous as they had been. I read of the Savior’s visit and his teachings. I learned that the Nephites had been destroyed because of their wickedness. Finally, I read in Moroni that we would meet at the Judgment Day and that the Lord would hold us responsible for the words contained in the Book of Mormon. I felt as if Moroni had written that message specifically for me.
Suddenly, I knew the Book of Mormon was true! The seed of faith had been planted within me, and now it had grown until I could scarcely contain it. I wanted to tell everyone I met of the joy I felt in finding out that the Book of Mormon was true, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God, and that the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were true. I wept in gratitude for having received this witness.
I drove over to Bishop Toolson’s house and knocked on the door. He invited me in and asked what he could do for me. Outwardly I didn’t look any different—my hair was longer than ever; yet inwardly, I had experienced a mighty change of heart. The words burst from me: “I want to go on a mission.”
Bishop Toolson smiled and invited me into his living room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out my missionary recommendation form. He had already filled it out completely, except for one box—and that was the first question that he asked me now: “When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” I answered. I could hardly wait to go! Bishop Toolson instructed me that I would need to submit a picture of myself—with a proper missionary haircut. I assured him that I would take care of that immediately.
I received my mission call on 4 August 1972. During my mission, I often bore my solemn witness that I knew from my own experience that the Book of Mormon was true. I learned that if we would encourage others to study the Book of Mormon, pray about it, and try to live by its teachings, they, too, would discover the truth of the Book of Mormon.

Erica walked into her parents’ room and looked at the picture on the wall. It was a picture of Jesus Christ. She had seen it many times before, but this time she noticed something.
“Hey, Dad? Where did this picture come from? And why is the frame broken?”
Dad looked up from making the bed. “That picture was Oma’s.”
Oma was her grandma who lived in Holland. Erica liked to hear Dad tell stories about her life.
Dad sat on the bed next to Erica. “When Oma grew up and left home to be a nurse, her mother gave her this painting,” he said. “She hung it up in her room. One day it fell off the wall, and the corner broke. She wasn’t able to fix it, and it’s been broken ever since. Then when I grew up and moved away from home, Oma gave it to me.”
Erica asked, “Why haven’t you fixed it?”
“I could fix it,” Dad said. “But it’s a good reminder. It helps me remember that even though we might sometimes feel hurt or broken, Jesus Christ can help us. And it reminds me that He knows and loves our family.”
Erica felt warm inside as she looked up at the picture again. It felt good to know that the Lord cared for her family.

Soon after he was married, Thomas Moore, the famous 19th-century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door not by his beautiful bride, but by the family doctor.

“Your wife is upstairs,” said the doctor. “But she has asked that you do not come up.” And then Moore learned the terrible truth: his wife had contracted smallpox. The disease had left her once flawless skin pocked and scarred. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again.

Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room. It was black as night inside. Not a sound came from the darkness. Groping along the wall, Moore felt for the gas jets.

A startled cry came from a black corner of the room. “No! Don’t light the lamps.”

Moore hesitated, swayed by the pleading in the voice.

“Go!” she begged. “Please go! This is the greatest gift I can give you, now.”

Moore did go. He went down to his study where he sat up most of the night, prayerfully writing. Not a poem this time, but a song. He had never written a song before, but now he found it more natural to his mood than simple poetry. He not only wrote the words, he wrote the music, too. And the next morning as soon as the sun was up he returned to his wife’s room.

He felt his way to a chair and sat down. “Are you awake?” he asked.

“I am,” came a voice from the far side of the room, “But you must not ask to see me. You must not press me, Thomas.”

“I will sing to you, then,” he answered. And so, for the first time, Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today:

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will.

Moore heard a movement from the dark corner where his wife lay in her loneliness, waiting. He continued:

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. . . .

The song ended. As his voice trailed off on the last note, Moore heard his bride rise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up and slowly threw open the shutters. [Galen Drake, Guideposts, Sept. 1957]

A pedigree chart! I knew that horses, dogs, and maybe even cats had pedigrees, but here was Sister Jones handing out pedigree charts for us to take home and fill out. Now I had heard everything!
I folded the paper and quickly thrust it into my pocket. Mom and Dad were always busy working and probably wouldn’t even have time to look at it, but Sister Jones had said that it was very important to know who our ancestors were. Well, I’d try my best. After we all filled out our charts, she was going to take us to the family history library for a tour. And after that, we were going for ice cream! I love ice cream.
Opening the gate, I ran up the stairs, waving the paper, exclaiming, “Mom, Dad, look what I got in church today!”
Dad lowered the volume on the television. He’s a great sports fan and never misses his games. That’s why he doesn’t get to church very often—the meetings are at the same time as the games.
“See, Dad, it’s a pedigree chart. Sister Jones says it’s important to find out about our families—where they lived, and when, and anything interesting we can find out about them, like the stories Grandad tells us.”
Mom came through the back door just then, smiling and brushing dirt from her knees. She had been planting new flowers. She loves working in her garden. Dad said that our home was a showplace because of the flowers blooming everywhere. Sunday was the only day Mom had to tend to her garden. She wished she had more time for church—maybe one day she would, and then she’d go, she said.
We sat on the porch steps while I explained my assignment to fill in the pedigree chart. To my surprise, Mom and Dad both began helping me, and we had a grand time!
Mom told me how her grandparents had come across the Atlantic Ocean when they left Sweden to come to America. The ship they were sailing on almost went down in a sudden, violent storm. How thankful they were to reach land and begin their new lives.
Dad’s grandparents had lived in a tiny log cabin in Kentucky. They became friends with the Indians, who helped them through the first cold, bitter winter.
The more they remembered, the more excited they became. They got out the old picture album, which had pictures of stern-looking men—some with curly mustaches—often holding canes and wearing hats, and women in long dresses, some holding fat little babies and surrounded by children. We were having such a good time that Dad even forgot his football game! And instead of going back out to her flowers, Mom began writing letters to her sisters and brothers for any information they had about their ancestors.
The next Sunday I could hardly wait to show Sister Jones my pedigree chart. And Mom had given me a note saying that she’d so enjoyed filling out the sheet that she wanted to help take our class to the library.
That afternoon, Dad phoned his mother in Kentucky, and they talked and talked about his family. Do you know—Dad’s great-grandfather had known Brigham Young!
That was just the beginning. We’re now planning a huge family reunion this summer with aunts, uncles, and cousins of all ages and sizes coming from all over. Dad says that there may be even a hundred! I can hardly wait to meet so many of my family.
Oh yes—I overheard Mom and Dad talking the other day, and miracle of miracles, they’re going to start coming to church with me. They said, “It’s about time to get our priorities in place.” Now, I’m not sure what “priorities” are, but I am sure that we’ll have plenty of room for them. And to think it all started with that single piece of paper!

There is a story about a young builder who had just gone into business for himself. A wealthy friend of his father came to him and said: “To help get you established, I am going to have you build a house for me. Here are the plans. Don’t spare expenses. I want the very finest materials used, and I want the best workmanship. Forget the cost. Just send me the bills.”
The young builder became obsessed with the desire to enrich himself through this generous and unrestricted offer. Instead of employing the best laborers and buying the finest materials, he cheated his benefactor in every way possible. Finally, the last poor-quality nail was driven into the last poor-quality wall, and the builder handed over the keys and bills to his father’s old friend. That gentleman wrote a check to pay for the full cost of building the house and then handed the keys back to the builder. “The home you have just built,” he said with a pleasant smile, “is my present to you. May you live in it in great happiness!”

I grew up in Southern California. Our family lived about an hour from the Pacific Ocean. I love the beach. I loved swimming in the ocean and riding the waves. I have happy memories of running over the hot sand, dodging umbrellas tilted to shade the sun, and jumping across outstretched beach towels as we hurried from the car to the water. We could hardly wait to get to the firm wet sand that had been wiped smooth by the foaming waves. We eagerly anticipated splashing through the shallow ripples and then diving into the cold dark water. But always as we ran-we looked up at the tall white wood tower where the life guard sat as the watchman.

The lifeguard had a chair shaded by an umbrella, on the top of the stand. From that vantage point and with his experience, the lifeguard could assess the condition of the sea. It was his responsibility to warn swimmers about the safety of the ocean. He did this by hoisting a flag. If the flag at the top of the pole was blue, we knew that the water was safe for swimming, but if the flag was red, we knew that there was a dangerous under tow or rip tide and the ocean was not safe for swimmers.

My parents told us many stories of people who had been drowned in a rip tide or undertow and they impressed upon us the foolishness of ignoring the lifeguard's caution. When we got older we often went to the beach with our friends, our parents were not there. They had taught us to follow the caution of the lifeguard. But the lifeguard was not a policeman. He was not there to enforce a law--he was only there to warn us. We were free to heed the warning or ignore it.

So it is with our prophet. President Gordon B. Hinckley is the watchman on the tower. But unlike the lifeguard at the beach--our prophet does not rely on his own wisdom to give us direction and warning. He receives revelation from the Lord and he passes that information on to us. He warns us of the dangerous currents and deadly tides yet we are free to heed his counsel or foolishly ignore it. Every summer when I was young we heard of someone who lost their life because they failed to heed the lifeguard's warning. I know we jeopardize our spiritual life and threaten our testimony if we fail to follow our watchman, the living prophet.

I would like to share an example of a brief but significant incident in which a positive cultural influence affected attitudes immediately as well as for decades to follow. This incident occurred at Johns Hopkins Hospital. The episode occurred in the emergency room. Three individuals were involved; I was just an observer. The three were a patient named Ben, a resident named Dr. Cohen, and a new intern, Dr. Jones. Ben was well known to the medical staff. He was an alcoholic and had been admitted numerous times for alcohol-related diseases. He was a kind, pleasant man. He was courteous and considerate of the medical staff. He was well liked. But once again Ben was in the emergency room, this time with alcohol-induced pancreatitis (or inflammation of the pancreas) severe enough to be admitted.

Dr. Cohen was the resident taking care of Ben in the emergency room. Dr. Cohen was a resident who the other interns and residents admired and looked up to. He was brilliant, hardworking, and exemplary in every way. He had made the determination that Ben needed to be admitted.

The intern next up in rotation was Dr. Jones, the new intern. Dr. Jones had gone to a prestigious medical school, was brilliant in her own right, and was just beginning her own postgraduate education. The training for interns was brutally hard, high pressured, and associated with constant sleep deprivation. That probably led to the response Dr. Jones had to this, her fifth admission of the night. She vocally and loudly bemoaned the fact that she would have to take several hours now to care for Ben, who had in fact brought on his own plight. She made her feelings clear to Dr. Cohen.

Dr. Cohen’s reprimand to her was concise, spoken in almost a whisper: “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.”

Chagrined, Dr. Jones provided Ben great care on that and subsequent hospitalizations. Ben has since passed, and both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen went on to exemplary, compassionate, and successful careers, but the lesson lingered.

The training culture at Johns Hopkins was that physicians would provide great care in a nonjudgmental way. Those new to the institution needed to learn this culture because it was not “natural” or inherent in trainees right out of medical school. Dr. Cohen had already internalized this culture and in this brief but significant moment taught Dr. Jones a proper attitude toward those who were to be helped and healed. Having overheard the conversation, the point was not lost on me. It had taken years for this culture to become ingrained. But it also needed to be conveyed. That is what Dr. Cohen did.

Losing one of my brothers while he was serving faithfully in the Abidjan West Mission was the beginning of gloom and dark clouds for my family. Things began to go badly in all facets of our lives. My maternal family members, who are not members, made lots of allegation against my parents but that never moved my parents, because of their unwavering faith in the Savior. My dad would say “it is the will of the Lord and what the Lord sees fit for His children, He does that for them”. Having a perfect knowledge of the plan of salvation gave us an assurance that surely, we would meet and be happy with my brother again after this test of mortality.
A few months later, I made a decision that raised eyebrows all around me. I decided to serve a full-time mission too. My decision to serve came as a blow to a greater part of my family and my closest friends. Most of them, if not 100 percent of them, counselled me not to, but my desire to serve the Lord and humanity was not thwarted because I knew what foundation I was built upon and my parent’s trust and support kept me going.
Amid the impending situation, I felt so different from everyone else and I remembered the talk by President Monson in which he quotes an old Primary song: “Dare to be a Mormon; Dare to stand alone. Dare to have a purpose firm; Dare to make it known”.1
This ultimately drove me to obtain my patriarchal blessing, and in it I realized the Lord has a greater work for me and that it can be accomplished successfully only if I exercise unyielding faith in Him. That helped me press on to pursue His course.
Currently, I am serving in one of the greatest missions (if not the greatest) and this brings me joy every single day. Whenever I share the restored gospel to God’s children, bear an honest and uplifting testimony, encourage them to have faith, repent, and prepare to make covenants, I feel the same joy that Lehi felt with his family in the Book of Mormon (see 1 Nephi 8:12).
Ever since I began this journey, I strive to develop the faith to reap because having just the faith to thrust in our sickles is not enough. The faith to reap is an unwavering faith in our Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s surely unyielding. Jacob, in the Book of Mormon, also admonished us “that we truly can command in the name of Jesus and the very trees obey us, or the mountains, or the waves of the sea” (Jacob 4:6).
These are miracles that come as we exercise this faith in Jesus Christ. I know for a surety that we do not require perfection to reap but all we need is persistence, genuine intentions, and an unfailing determination.
My parent’s faith in Jesus Christ has been the backbone and driving force for me in being a full-time missionary and it gives me the strength each day to press forward, remain valiant, and return with honor because I know who I am, what I stand for and whose team I play for.

A few years ago I was teaching an Old Testament Gospel Doctrine class. I had to be absent for a couple of Sundays and so I sought someone to substitute in my absence. I found a sister who was excited to teach the class until I told her that the two lessons she would teach would be the first two lessons from the writings of Isaiah. Her eyes glazed over and I thought she was going into cardiac arrest! She said, "You have to be kidding! I can scarcely understand Isaiah. How will I ever be able to teach those lessons?"

In no way do I consider myself an authority on the teachings of Isaiah. However, like you, I recognize the powerful feelings I receive when I read and study his sacred record. Although I cannot be certain that I always comprehend the full extent and continuing impact of his teachings, I bask in the warm glow of truth as the Spirit bears witness of its relevance.

Speaking of expert opinion, I was in another graduate class where a student was reporting on the prominent pioneer educator Horace Mann. Another student in the class challenged some of the information he was presenting. He stopped and said, “I want to tell you that these are not my own words. I am quoting directly from the author—these words came straight from Horace’s mouth.”

In your search for yourself I would like to make a suggestion or two, which is the burden of what I want to talk to you about this morning.

But I felt so alone. I was in Zion, the place of peace and rest for the Saints. I was supposed to be happy. But I missed my family.
The blind lady allowed me to stay with her and keep house, and I tried my hardest to keep everything neat and clean for her. But she wasn’t my family. Mama was always in my thoughts. I knew that she would come. Somehow, some way, Mama would make it to Zion.
Whenever I heard of a wagon train coming into the Salt Lake Valley, I watched for the dusty sky—a sure sign that the wagons would arrive soon. Then I’d run to the fence and climb as high as I could to see the immigrants. At first they would be just a dust cloud on the horizon. But slowly, oh so slowly, I could make out the wagons and the animals and the people.
I studied the women passing by. Mama’s hair is that color—but no, it isn’t Mama. Over there is a woman with Mama’s posture—but no, it isn’t Mama, either. Could that one driving the team be she? No, no, no. With every incoming group, I thought, Surely Mama will be in this company with my younger brothers and sisters.
I searched and searched, and doubts would come. No one smiled at me. No one ran and wrapped me in her arms. As the wagons rolled past, another heartache began. With each disappointment, the tears coursed down my cheeks, and I cried until there were no more tears left.
Two long, hard years passed before Mama finally came. When she did, I could hardly believe my eyes. She was worn and tired and covered with dust. I almost didn’t recognize her. But she knew me, even though I had grown quite a bit taller.
I ran to her as fast as I could. I wrapped my arms around her and wept—this time tears of happiness. She had made it to Zion. I wasn’t alone anymore. Together we were home. At last I felt Zion in my heart.

In the early 1980s, my father, who suffered from severe heart disease, underwent a heart operation that we hoped would prolong his life.
At the time, the innovative procedure the surgeons used was new to Uruguay. Surgeons replaced the aortic valve with an artificial valve. Eventually, that procedure became commonplace and has saved countless lives.
Because the surgery involved this revolutionary surgical procedure, several cardiologists attended, observing the operation. While surgeons operated, my mother sat worried in the waiting room. The hours seemed endless.
We rejoiced when we learned that the operation was a complete success. Upon exiting the operating room, one of the surgeons separated from the other surgeons and went to the waiting room. He was a visiting surgeon who had come to Uruguay to supervise the operation.
He approached my mother, stopped, and touched her reassuringly on the shoulder. Then, looking into her eyes, he said, “Everything will be all right.”
The surgeon was correct. My father lived another 24 years, serving the Lord with all his heart—now healthy—until the last day of his life.
During the Church’s most recent general conference, my mother was reminded of that special visit so many years ago. In fact, she’s reminded every time that visiting surgeon—President Russell M. Nelson—speaks to the Saints.
All of the Lord’s prophets are special to us in some way. Some are special because they served as President of the Church while we were young. Some are special because they served as President when we got baptized. For my mother and me, President Nelson is special because he knows that every serious medical procedure touches not just the patient but that patient’s loved ones as well. He knows that family members need words of encouragement, strength, and reassurance when the health or life of a loved one is in jeopardy.
We will always be grateful for President Nelson’s words of reassurance long ago in Uruguay and for his life of service to Heavenly Father and Heavenly Father’s children.

When I was young, my grandfather Martin taught me that in the latter days, temples would literally dot the earth. At the time my grandfather expressed this thought to me, I could hardly imagine it. But I was raised with this knowledge and feeling in my heart. Recently I looked on the Church’s Web site under “temples,” and I could plainly see that temples, designated by red dots, are starting to spread over much of the earth.

Ana chewed her last bite of tortilla. She loved her grandmother’s tortillas. They were the best part of breakfast.
Ana watched her grandmother, Abuela, wash the dishes. It was like any other morning. But one thing was not the same.
Most mornings Ana and Abuela walked to the market to buy food. But today there was no money.
What will we eat tomorrow? Ana wondered.
Then Ana remembered. Last night she saw Abuela put a few pesos in a little bag.
“Abuela, you have money to buy food,” Ana said.
“What money?” Abuela asked.
Ana ran to get the little bag of coins. Clink! Clink!
Abuela smiled. “That is our tithing. That is for Heavenly Father.”
“But what will we eat tomorrow?” Ana asked.
“Do not worry,” Abuela said. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
The next morning Abuela gave Ana the last tortilla. Then she sat down in her chair. She told stories about when she was a little girl. She did not look worried.
Then Ana heard a knock. She ran to open the door.
“Uncle Pedro!”
“I had a feeling I should visit,” Uncle Pedro said. He put three sacks on the table. One had flour for tortillas. Another had meat. Another had vegetables.
“Oh, my sweet son,” Abuela said. “Thank you!”
Ana was so happy. But there was one thing she wanted to know. “Abuela, did you know Uncle Pedro would come? Is that why you weren’t worried?”
“No,” Abuela said. “When I pay tithing, I have faith that Heavenly Father will bless me. And He did!”
Ana hugged Abuela. She felt like the happiest girl in Mexico. She and Abuela had faith in Heavenly Father.

For some, there will come the temptation to dishonor a personal standard of honesty. In a business law class at the university I attended, I remember that one particular classmate never prepared for the class discussions. I thought to myself, “How is he going to pass the final examination?”
I discovered the answer when he came to the classroom for the final exam on a winter’s day wearing on his bare feet only a pair of sandals. I was surprised and watched him as the class began. All of our books had been placed upon the floor, as per the instruction. He slipped the sandals from his feet; and then, with toes that he had trained and had prepared with glycerin, he skillfully turned the pages of one of the books which he had placed on the floor, thereby viewing the answers to the examination questions.
He received one of the highest grades in that course on business law. But the day of reckoning came. Later, as he prepared to take his comprehensive exam, for the first time the dean of his particular discipline said, “This year I will depart from tradition and will conduct an oral, rather than a written, test.” Our favorite trained-toe expert found that he had his foot in his mouth on that occasion and failed the exam.

An illustration of the blessings that one receives through obedience is given by this story of Abraham Smoot. As you know, the administration building bears his name.

After the hardships of Ohio, Missouri, and Nauvoo, Abraham Smoot finally was able to settle down in Salt Lake City, build comfortable accommodations for his family, and become mayor of the city. Brigham asked Brother Smoot to come to Provo and be the stake president. The Brigham Young Academy was not Church funded and was the personal responsibility of the stake president. Brother Smoot balked at the idea. “Brother Brigham, I’ve put my family through so much. I have done all I was asked to do. Now, finally, I have some of the comforts of life, I have a position of respect, and I am able to provide for my family. It is too much to ask. I will not go to Provo.”

At that, Brigham Young, the Lion of the Lord, is reputed to have said, “Brother Smoot, you will go to Provo, or you will go to ———!” Brother Smoot went to Provo. By the time he died, Abraham O. Smoot was deeply in debt from keeping the university functioning. His homes were mortgaged and an auction was held to settle the debts.

Jesse Knight showed up at the sale and happened to be the highest bidder on every one of the Smoot homes. He took the deeds and signed one over to each of the wives of Abraham Smoot living in the homes.

Brother Smoot demonstrated to us that by being obedient we harvest eternal blessings which are far more important than the material wealth of this life.

When I graduated from college I was just like many other Chinese young men: I called myself a scientist. I did not really believe in God. I could not believe that the universe was created by God. I often accepted invitations to “Bai-Bai” (traditional Chinese family worship), but I mostly wanted to enjoy the company and the wonderful food offered to their gods as part of the ceremony, but eaten by the participants. I was not the only one with such feelings; sometimes neither the sponsor of “Bai-Bai” nor the guest knew which god or gods they were worshiping that day.
My family worshiped their ancestors only during Chinese festival days, but despite lack of a strong religious tradition in the family, Christianity was unthinkable as an alternative. We felt that accepting a “foreign” God would make us traitors to our ancestors. Furthermore, like many Chinese, I disliked Christian missionaries because their governments had, for the last two hundred years, invaded my country, selling opium to my countrymen, and almost destroying China just as they destroyed India, Egypt, and the Incas.
Nevertheless, one day a Latter-day Saint schoolmate, Young Ho Chin, told me he was going to visit two sister missionaries who lived close to his house. One was from Canada, he said. I went with him to see this Canadian because I had never seen one before. When I was introduced to Sister Moirg Blackmore, who was from Cardston, Alberta, and Sister E. Julia Smith from Salt Lake City, they began teaching me the gospel immediately, even before I could ask which one was from Canada.
For the first three lessons I did not fully understand the Christian terms they were using, and I had so many questions it was hard for the sisters to answer all of them. And many of these teachings seemed to contradict the “scientific” knowledge I had obtained in school. But not wishing to be rude, and touched by their enthusiasm, I continued to investigate the restored gospel. Eventually I was more interested in it than in anything I had ever studied before.
Then they asked me to be baptized. I knew this would be a turning point in my life. I knew the gospel was true, but the traditional Chinese concept of God was so deeply planted in my mind that I could neither get rid of it nor adjust it to the truth. I knew I must kneel down and pray, but when I started to, a strange force bound me and I could not utter one word. When I stopped praying, I was free from that force. After twelve unsuccessful attempts, I was finally able to pray. I was soaking wet with perspiration.
When I rose from my knees, it was 2:30 in the morning, but I had no doubts in my mind. My decision was made and I was baptized. My faith could not become complete in one day, and sometimes a doubt would flash over my mind. Nevertheless, the more I studied the scriptures the more I believed.
For instance, God told us to have our genealogy worked out, and the Chinese are a race that keeps genealogical records. My family’s record goes back to 1,000 B.C. I also found some parallels between Chinese tradition and Christian teachings. For example, Chinese lore preserves the story of Pan Ko Shi, who lived in heaven and died so his body could become the world. This legend has similarities to the mission of Christ, who was crucified so man could have eternal life. There are other examples: The Chinese character for ark can mean eight persons in a boat; Noah’s ark had eight persons on it. (See 1 Pet. 3:20.) We put red papers on the door frame to get luck and to cast out evils; the ancient Israelites put blood on their door frames to protect them from the destroying angel. (See Ex. 12:13.) Chinese records indicate that their ancient kings and emperors lived about eight hundred years; Genesis indicates very long lifespans for its early patriarchs. Chinese describe heaven and hell in multiples of three, each with a different glory or punishment. The Church teaches the three degrees of glory. Whenever we Chinese had a tyrannical leader, the people would say that a true heavenly son would descend, save the people, and become their new king. Chinese also know the definition and necessity of opposition.
When I found all these things, I knew that my people had once had the truth. Since those ancient times, Chinese have retained only a blurred idea of all these teachings. But they keep and honor them in their own way. I now know I am not a traitor to my ancestors in joining the Church, nor am I worshiping a “foreign” God.
In the many years since I was baptized, my parents and friends have finally accepted me as a Latter-day Saint: a funny man who drinks no wine, smokes no tobacco, has no mistress, and sometimes, incredibly, even eats no food. They think I have no pleasure in life. But I have gained pleasure and peace in my heart that is beyond their understanding.

“Mother, may I have some wax paper!” Luis called as he ran onto the sunny patio. “I want to write a magic message to Pepe.”
“A magic message?” Mother questioned. She snipped another bright hibiscus before she stepped into the cool house.
“Yes, I’ll show you.” Luis placed a sheet of blank paper on the kitchen table. “A sheet of wax paper goes on top of the paper,” he explained.
In neat letters Luis printed on the wax paper.
Dear Pepe,
Please come over.
Aunt Marian gave me a …
Worry clouded his brown eyes. Luis looked up.
“P-a-r-r-o-t,” Mother spelled for him.
Luis repeated the letters as he wrote. Then he carefully added his name to the bottom of the message.
“I don’t need the wax paper anymore,” Luis announced as he dropped it into the wastebasket. The paper still looked blank.
“May I go over to Pepe’s and give him my message?” he asked.
“Of course, Luis,” Mother smiled, “but there’s nothing on your paper. How can Pepe read your message?”
“It’s magic,” Luis replied.
Chuckling to himself, Luis scurried out the door, pausing a moment by the gnarled olive tree to examine a large cage. Then he hurried on to Pepe’s house.
Soon Luis was back, flushed with excitement and waving another blank sheet of paper.
“I taught Pepe how to write a magic message,” Luis bubbled. “Here’s his answer.”
Mother set the white bowl filled with hibiscus blossoms on the table and looked at the blank paper. Luis took a pencil and began covering the sheet of paper with black marks. Soon the sheet was all black except where Pepe had written over wax paper. Those spots remained white.
Luis read:
Dear Luis,
I can come. What did you name your parrot?
Pepe
From the patio door a timid voice called, “Luis, have you read my magic answer?”
“Yes!” Luis called.
Pepe beamed.
“My parrot’s name is Geronimo,” Luis confided.
And together the two friends ran across the patio to the cage by the olive tree.