Gospel Story Finder

A few days before school was supposed to start, my mom came to me and said, “Why don’t you ask Dad to give you a father’s blessing to help you with school?”
I didn’t want to ask my father for a blessing. My father is a very good man and always keeps the commandments, but he wasn’t someone I thought of as really spiritual. Besides, we hadn’t been getting along very well recently. He always seemed to be keeping me from doing what I wanted to do. I wasn’t sure that any blessing he gave me would do me any good, but my mom continued to encourage me to ask him.
The night before school started, she reminded me again. Hesitantly, I went to ask my dad for a blessing, almost positive that he’d say no.
He didn’t. Instead, he agreed to give me a blessing and immediately stopped what he’d been working on so it could happen right then. My mom brought out a chair and I sat down.
I didn’t expect to feel anything different, but as soon as he laid his hands on my head and began to speak, tears rushed into my eyes and I felt the Spirit very strongly. I realized at that moment that even though my dad isn’t perfect, he is a Melchizedek Priesthood holder. He respects his covenants, and he loves me. I realized what a great blessing that is, and I was so grateful for the opportunity to be blessed by my father through the priesthood.

“Father came home every night shortly after six o’clock, and dinner was always at six-thirty. I remember wonderful evenings at the dinner table. The moment dinner was over, Dad would help clear the table; then we would go into the living room. He would be at one end of the room, totally absorbed in the work he’d brought home. Even so, he always knew what we were doing. If we listened to some good program on the radio, we would keep it down low so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Then, in the middle of the program, he’d look up and smile and say, ‘Turn it up a little. I can’t hear what’s happening.’”

I’m thinking of another missionary, who said, “Two weeks before I was going to see my bishop and tell him I was ready to go in the mission field, I had some doubts. I had some questions about the future and even about the Church. I walked into the living room and interrupted my father, who was watching TV, and said, ‘Dad, I’m not so sure about Joseph Smith. I’m not so sure I know this Church is true. I’m not so sure I want to go out and represent it. I have a lot of questions and I have a lot of misgivings.’ When I said that to my father, he walked over and turned the television off, took the cigarette he had in his hand and smashed it in the ashtray, took the can of beer he had in his other hand and put it down on the table, and said, ‘Son, I want you to know that I don’t do very much about it, but I know that the church of Jesus Christ is true and that Joseph Smith is a prophet. I want you to hear me say it, because I know that better than anything in the world.’” This young man stood up and said, “I want my father to know, even though he probably can’t hear me, that I appreciate him. He has some habits that he’s not proud of. He has some habits that I’m not proud of. But he’s my father and has a testimony and I love him.” That kind of appreciation, that kind of maturity, will not only help a missionary to grow and develop to become more purposeful in life, but will also be a great anchor in life’s paths.

Johan and Lisa Koch of Copenhagen could tell them about the long-term rewards of setting the right priorities. The Kochs joined the Church as a young married couple in 1968 and reared their seven children in the Church. In 2004 when they served as guides during the open house for the Copenhagen temple, a man who had gone to school with one of their sons came on a tour. “I had to come,” the man explained, “because I know Christian, and I know what it would mean to him.”
The Kochs first went to the temple in Switzerland many years ago, and they set an example for their family by serving as temple workers when that meant an eight-hour trip to Stockholm. They kept a picture of the temple on a wall in their home. They used every resource to help their children grow strong in the gospel, including family prayer, home evening, and home-study seminary.
After years of having to travel outside their country, “to have a temple so close is a special blessing,” Sister Koch says. Her husband, who was released as president of the Copenhagen stake in 2001, sees the coming of the temple as a sign of growing maturity among members. But the Kochs are also impressed by its effect on those who are not members. When they talked of sealing during the open house tours, Brother Koch says, “you could tell which couples had a good marriage by the way they looked at each other. They would ask, ‘Could we do that?’”

In 1999, ten years ago, I was living in Los Angeles. All of my education is in composition and I was working as a composer [and] as a music teacher, when I heard about what was happening in Kosovo. Now a story that I heard on the radio talked about how the Serbs were trying to ethnically cleanse Kosovo of all the Albanians. Now what they would do is go into a village, force the women and the men to separate, and then the women were told to leave and to walk to another country. The men and boys, meanwhile, were rounded up. Some of them escaped, many of them were killed, and many of them were taken to prison. The women had no place to go. They were told to leave their own country and to go to a refugee camp in a neighboring country. The conditions in the camps were horrible, but the worst thing was that they did not know what happened to their husbands and sons, their fathers, their brothers, and there was no communication to find out what was happening.

This radio program was interviewing these women, and they were talking about this, and how scared they were, and how they were just praying that the men in their lives were alive. Well, I had heard about this and was actually planning a backpacking in Austria that summer. So I thought, I am already going to Europe, I might as well go to Kosovo instead and help out. I had no idea where Kosovo was; all I knew was that it was in Europe, and Austria was in Europe, so how far apart could they be? That's how a lot of plans have happened in my life that have turned out very well.

I decided to go, and I found this volunteer organization, and the way that it worked was that you paid your way to get to the country and then you gave them some money when you arrived to cover your accommodations. You lived with them, and then you participated with their programs. And they were working with the children that were living in the refugee camps, so I thought that this would be a really great thing to do.

I was talking someone about this, and they offered to give me some money to help pay for this. I said, "Oh no, this is not what this is about. I am just doing this instead of going on vacation. It won't cost anything more than it would cost me to spend a month in Austria." This woman said, "No, you do not understand. My husband and I have been talking about this all week, and we want to go too, but we can't go. So we'd like to give you some money so it's like we are going with you." I said, "Well, let me think about that, because that is totally different from what I was planning."

I went home that night and was talking to my next door neighbor, who was a friend of mine from the singles ward in Los Angeles. I said, "I don't know what to do ”I don't want to take money from anyone." She said, "Liz, don't be stupid. Don't just go to go, do what you do best. Take a music program over there to the kids." So my singles group in L.A. started holding fundraising events; my ward got really involved, I started contacting instrument manufacturers, and I ended up going with about $5,000 worth of musical instruments. The instruments that I chose to go with are the harmonica and the penny whistle [holds them up]. The reason I chose these instruments was because they're simple. Anyone can learn to play these instruments, but you can also play complex music. Also, they're small, and I knew these children were living in camps, and they would at some point have to walk home. I wanted them to have something that was small enough to put in their pocket, and no one would be able to take it away from them.

I arrived in Kosovo in August 1999, and the war had been over for a few weeks, and so everyone had returned back to Kosovo. But when they got there, they found that everything had been destroyed ”absolutely everything: the streets, the schools, the homes, everything. And if you were lucky enough that your home was not destroyed, you had to be careful because things might be booby-trapped inside of your home, so most of the people living in Kosovo had to live in camps even after they went home. And the camps inside of Kosovo, instead of being tents, were just buildings. Any building that was standing could be a camp, so people moved into factories, churches, schools, and hotels.

The camp that I went to first was a brick factory. There were about 350 people living in this brick factory; three of them were men ”the rest were women and children. These women were all waiting and hoping and praying that the men in their family were still alive. I went to the camp the very first day, and I saw hundreds of children outside, just playing, and fighting, and making weapons out of things that you just wouldn't even think you could make weapons out of. I brought a volleyball and I started playing volleyball with the kids, but they kept fighting. I said, "You guys have to stop fighting, or I'm going to take my volleyball and go home." Of course, I said this in English, and, they didn't speak English, so I don't know if they really understood what I said. Then, we played a little bit more and they would fight again, and I would say, "You've got to stop fighting, or I'm going to go home." We did this about nine times, and after about an hour-and-a-half I said, "Ok, that's enough for today. I'm going to take my ball and go home, and hopefully tomorrow we'll do better." I started leaving, and as I was leaving, a woman ran out of one of the rooms in the camp and grabbed my hand. And she started leading me around and taking me around on a tour of the camp ”I think”because I didn't understand what she was saying to me. She showed me a big garbage pile, and she showed me their outdoor toilets, their one spigot of water for 350 people, and then she took me back to her room. And inside this room all the women of the camp had gathered, watching this strange American lady that was out there playing with their kids, and they wanted to meet me. And there was a seventeen-year-old girl there who spoke some English and she translated for me and told me about their lives. And as I got to know these women, I noticed there were a lot of these seventeen-year-old women there with them, and there were a lot of groups doing programs for the young children and for the boys, but there was nobody doing anything for these young girls”they were sort of invisible.

The first class that I started doing was for teenage girls. It was an amazing experience. It was so much fun. I would go to the camp every day, play sports with the kids, and then go and teach these teenage girls. Then the younger girls would start going with me, and asking me if I could do a class for them. I started giving a class for the younger girls. This class was going really well for the younger girls also, but now every time I went to the class, the boys would come up to me and say, "Lizza! Lizza! Musika! Musika!" And I said, "No way! I'm not going to do anything where I expect you to sit down and actually listen to me talk. We can't even play for ten minutes without you fighting." And they would say, "No! We'll be good! We'll be good!"

Then, one day, when I went to the camp, they did this [mimicking plucking tears from their eyes and dropping them into their hands] and this meant that they were collecting tears to give to me. When they did that, I said "Ok, I will teach you a music class if you would promise that you won't fight, that you won't talk when I'm talking, and you will practice." And these boys ended up being the best class that I have ever taught in my entire live”they were amazing. If one of these boys started to talk, the other boys would jump on them before he could even get a sentence out of his mouth. And if I was anywhere in town and I heard a harmonica, I'd turn around and it was always one of those boys. They kept those harmonicas everywhere they went.

This camp, this place that had been so full of sadness, became this place that was full of so much life. It wasn't necessarily beautiful, but it was full of life. It took about forty minutes to walk to the camp. On the last ten minutes of that walk, all you could hear were these instruments”it was amazing.

The kids that weren't living in these camps”the kids that were living in their homes or in a tent in their backyard while they were trying to rebuild their home”they didn't really have any place to go. So they all gathered at this one school that hadn't been destroyed in our city. And these kids were just sitting around, smoking, fighting”there were thousands of them. And "Save the Children" had started a volleyball program downstairs, so I went to the children and asked, "Would you like to have a music class?"

The first day, I had about nine kids in the class; that was a Monday. By Friday, I had over ninety children in that class. I ended up staying for six weeks, and by the end of the six weeks I was teaching six days a week, five classes a day in the school, six days a week, four classes a day in the camp, and everyday more children came into these programs. I gave away all of the instruments that I had bought and they still kept coming. Parents would come to me and say, "Please, let my child into the class," and so we just kept letting more and more children into these classes”it was amazing.

Then, I had to leave. I had to go home. I had seen these kids fight, I had seen children attack adults, I'd seen children play executioner, but I had never seen them cry until I told them it was time for me to leave. And when I said I had to leave they said, "No, Liz, you can't go. There is no one else here that is doing anything like this. We have people and organizations that are rebuilding our homes, that are giving us food, and we're so grateful for that, but this is the only thing that is feeding us inside. You can't take that away from us." I said, "Ok, I don't know how I am going to do this, but I promise you I will come back."

I left Kosovo, went back to Los Angeles, and was giving a fireside. At the end of the fireside, I said, "I have got to get back to Kosovo, but I don't know how I'm going to do it." A woman approached me afterwards and said, "If you would like to start a non-profit foundation, I'll be your accountant." And someone else said, "I'll be the lawyer." So they went off and did the paperwork and formed the Shropshire Music Foundation, and we've been around ever since.

In the spring of 1972, President Spencer W. Kimball, who was serving as the Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, was very ill. Throat cancer had returned, and his heart was threatening to fail due to a clogged artery and a malfunctioning valve. He was seventy-seven years old. The cancer was stopped with cobalt treatments, and his physicians recommended a complex surgical procedure on his heart, with only some chance of success.
In a meeting with his doctors and President Harold B. Lee of the First Presidency, President Kimball said wearily, “I am an old man and ready to die.” He wondered whether, at his age, it made sense to fight so hard to extend his life when, perhaps, his time had come. President Lee arose and said with power, “Spencer, you have been called! You are not to die! You are to do everything you need to do to care for yourself and continue to live.”
Spencer did not give up and die. He was not a man who gave up, no matter how difficult the task.
The surgery was performed and was successful. While he was recovering, President Joseph Fielding Smith passed away. Eighteen months later, President Harold B. Lee also passed away, and Spencer W. Kimball became the twelfth President of the Church. Considering his age and health history, most people expected his administration to be a brief “caretaker” period. But instead, it was a vigorous time of miracles. For the next twelve years, in the words of Elder Neal A. Maxwell, “one often got the feeling that [President Kimball] was always on the next ridge waiting for the Church to catch up. Though he smiled at us and beckoned us, he would like to have seen us move more than just a bit faster.”
He talked about the importance of missionary work and challenged us to “lengthen our stride.” He said, “It seems to me that the Lord chose his words when he said ‘every nation,’ ‘every land,’ ‘uttermost bounds of the earth,’ ‘every tongue,’ ‘every people,’ ‘every soul,’ ‘all the world,’ ‘many lands.’” He urged us to pray that the hearts of leaders of oppressive governments would be softened and that they would allow the missionaries to come into their lands. The number of missionaries doubled, and nearly three million people came into the Church. At the time of his death, 60 percent of the stakes in the Church had been created during his time as President.
He stressed the importance of temple work, and the number of temples rose from fifteen to thirty-seven, with several others announced or under construction.
He discussed the importance of the family as the basic unit of the Church, and a new Sunday meeting schedule was introduced to give families more time together.
A new English hymnbook was published; it became a standard for many language editions that later followed.
He taught the importance of scripture study, and new editions of the standard works with more extensive cross-referencing and a better topical guide were published. Individuals and families were encouraged to study the scriptures. Two revelations were added to the scriptures—the vision of the celestial kingdom given to Joseph Smith (D&C 137) and the vision of the redemption of the dead given to President Joseph F. Smith (D&C 138).
The First Quorum of the Seventy was formally organized and expanded, so that there were more General Authorities to handle the responsibilities of a rapidly growing worldwide church. Men from half a dozen nations were called to that Quorum. All the General Authorities, including President Kimball, traveled extensively, and area conferences were held in many cities on six continents.
But perhaps the most exciting moment occurred in June 1978 when the Lord revealed that the time had come to extend the priesthood to worthy men of all races. (See OD 2.)
Every good teacher knows that one of the best ways to get the attention of students is to whisper. President Kimball whispered, not because he wanted to, but because cancer had taken most of his vocal cords. And he got our attention! We listened raptly to his inspired counsel:
“I find that when I get casual in my relationships with divinity and when it seems that no divine ear is listening and no divine voice is speaking, that I am far, far away. If I immerse myself in the scriptures the distance narrows and spirituality returns.”
“Grow all the food that you possibly can on your own property.”
“We ask you to clean up your homes and your farms. … Make our properties a thing of beauty to behold.”
“Every person should keep a journal and every person can keep a journal.”
“Suffering can make saints of people as they learn patience, long-suffering, and self-mastery.”
“Marriage can be successful as long as selfishness does not enter in.”
“The spectacle of a nation praying is more awe-inspiring, more powerful, than the explosion of an atomic bomb.”
“Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith.”
“I know that Jesus Christ is the Son of the living God and that he was crucified for the sins of the world. He is my friend, my Savior, my Lord, my God.”
Surely the Lord had prepared Spencer W. Kimball for just this time, had known of his unique talents, had seen him grow through many trials, and knew that he was the man who could lead the Church in a time of such growth and excitement.
He was born 28 March 1894 in Salt Lake City, the sixth child of Andrew and Olive Woolley Kimball. When he was three years old, his father was called to be president of the St. Joseph Stake in southeastern Arizona, so the family made the four-day move south.
Spencer thrived in the Gila Valley, but he also learned sorrow. There his mother died when he was just eleven years old. Four of his sisters also died.
The first World War thwarted his hopes for more advanced education, but he served a mission in the central United States and later married Camilla Eyring, who was a school teacher. They had three sons and a daughter. He established his own insurance business, was active in community affairs, and served in Church callings as diverse as music director, stake clerk, and stake president.
One youthful experience tells us much about his personality and abilities. When Spencer was fourteen, he attended a meeting in which the speaker asked how many in the congregation had read the Bible. He felt miserable that he could not raise his hand. He wrote, “That very night at the conclusion of the sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up to my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book.”
He learned to work hard and long on his father’s farm, and he was not one to give up easily. When he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in 1943, he was shocked, overwhelmed, and humbled. In his first talk as an Apostle at the October 1943 general conference, he testified:
“I remember reading that Jacob wrestled all night, ‘until the breaking of the day,’ for a blessing; and I want to tell you that for eighty-five nights I have gone through that experience, wrestling for a blessing. Eighty-five times, the breaking of the day has found me on my knees praying to the Lord to help me and strengthen me and make me equal to this great responsibility that has come to me.”
The announcement of the June 1978 revelation also illustrates his patience: “We have pleaded long and earnestly in behalf of these, our faithful brethren, spending many hours in the Upper Room of the Temple supplicating the Lord for divine guidance.
“He has heard our prayers, and by revelation has confirmed that the long-promised day has come when every faithful, worthy man in the Church may receive the holy priesthood” (OD 2).
Perhaps Spencer W. Kimball’s patience and tenacity were just the qualities needed to bring about this great blessing from the Lord.
In a speech to a group of servicemen shortly after he had been called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Kimball expressed his feeling of humility and wonder that such a call could come to him. But then he said, “I don’t know exactly why the Lord has called me, but I have one talent to offer. My father taught me how to work; and if the Lord can use a worker, I’m available.”
He became a legend for his energy, his long working hours, and the way he applied his motto—“Do It”—to himself. But always evident in his life was his great love of people. In fact, he often described himself by saying, “I love people.”
He had a special love for the Lamanites. In his patriarchal blessing he was told, “You will preach the gospel to many people, but more especially to the Lamanites.”
As a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, he was given responsibility for the Indian mission and later for the South American missions. President George Albert Smith gave him a special charge to look after the Indians throughout the world.
Stories abound of his kind acts and thoughtfulness. One snowy day when many airline flights had been canceled, thousands were stranded in a busy airport. A young mother and her two-year-old child waited in line after line trying to buy a ticket. The child was tired and hungry, and the mother was pregnant and could not carry her child. As the child sat whimpering on the floor, the mother moved her along with her foot. As people behind her in the line muttered and criticized, the young mother wanted to cry.
Then a man approached her with a kind smile on his face, “Young lady, it appears to me that you need a little help.” He took the child in his arms, comforted her, and gave her a stick of chewing gum. After he told the other people of the woman’s plight, they agreed to let her go to the front of the line. The man took her to her flight. As she boarded the plane, she thought, “What a wonderful man, and I don’t even know his name.” A few days later, she saw his picture in a newspaper and learned that he was Elder Spencer W. Kimball of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On another occasion, a bishop in South America asked if Elder Kimball could bless a dying man in the hospital between stake conference sessions. They raced to the hospital and ran up the stairs and down the hall. As they entered the room, the bishop recalled, “There was an amazing change. Elder Kimball seemed to have all the time in the world.” They visited unhurriedly, administered to the man, and took their leave. Once out the door, they ran to the car and sped back to the conference.
Many people, sick in the hospital, were blessed and comforted by a much sicker Spencer Kimball during his many hospital stays. He once said, “My life is like my shoes—to be worn out in service.”
He spent a great deal of time counseling those who had become weakened by sin or were struggling with adversity. The sorrow and joy he shared with them inspired his books The Miracle of Forgiveness and Faith Precedes the Miracle, which have, in turn, inspired many more members of the Church.
Had Spencer W. Kimball died at the age of seventy-seven, he would have lived a marvelous life as a missionary, husband, father, businessman, stake clerk, stake president, and, for thirty years, Apostle. His many struggles with poor health, his acts of kindness, his loving wisdom would have stood as a monument to him.
But, at an age when most people retire and take their ease, he was given the greatest challenge a man could have. He accepted a calling he never expected to have and magnified it in such a way that millions of people, living and dead, were blessed.

A correlation exists between hope and gratitude. To illustrate, let me share a personal experience. Last Thanksgiving, Sister Nelson and I hosted a memorable gathering. All of our locally available daughters, sons, and grandchildren were there, among others. We counted sixty-three people at the feast. As part of our after-dinner program, Sister Nelson distributed a sheet of paper to each individual, headed, “This year, I am thankful for. . .” The remainder of the page was blank. She asked each to complete the thought, either in writing or by drawing a picture. The papers were then collected, redistributed, and read aloud. We were asked to guess who composed each reply, which, incidentally, was not very difficult.

Meanwhile, I observed a pattern. Generally, the children were thankful for food, clothing, shelter, family (and, occasionally, pets). Their pictures were precious, though not likely to be shown in an art gallery. Our youth broadened their expressions to include gratitude for their country, freedom, and church. The adults noted most of those items, but in addition mentioned the temple, their love of the Lord, and appreciation for his atonement. Their hopes were combined with gratitude. Counting blessings is better than recounting problems.

Things are not always the way they appear to be:
One young man, away from home for the first time in his life, made friendships with people who took him to places the Spirit could not remain. He perceived the emptiness he felt when he was with his new friends in these places, to be evidence of his complete lack of social ability. He started to believe: "There must be something wrong with me. I'm a complete social misfit. I don't even like being with people." It was only years later, following other experiences with friends where the Spirit was present, that he made the connection, that what was uncomfortable to him, was not social situations, but was ANY situation where the Spirit was not present.

Eight young men, all from the Sunnyvale Fourth Ward, Santa Clara California Stake, took on the ambitious project of producing a video yearbook for their high school. The proceeds from the project would go to the ward missionary fund.

With the help of their adviser and a small video production company, they acquired the equipment they needed. They approached the principal of the high school with the idea, and he agreed to the project.

With some training from the personnel at the video production company, the young men learned how to shoot and edit the tape. They wrote a script and asked a friend to help them with a musical score.

After 50 hours of shooting and countless hours of editing and dubbing music, the finished hour-long video was offered for sale to students.

The money earned from the sale of the tapes was not the only reward of the project. In working with their nonmember student friends, the priests of the ward were able to talk about the Church.

Vocational opportunities opened up as the young men gained experience. One of the priests felt he may have found an area he would like to pursue in college after his mission. And they all learned how to work hard to make a project succeed.

In addition, the project increased the friendship among the young men. They grew closer because of their shared interest and felt they were making a real contribution.

Each year the young men try to make the upstairs spook alley even better than the year before. This year each of the quorums was in charge of a room. “It was pretty spooky,” one little clown was heard to say, “but you don’t have to go through it alone.” The young men make sure that one of their number or a young woman who isn’t busy at the moment accompanies each child through so that no scares are taken too seriously. And many children brave the alley not only because of their “big” friends who help them through, but also because if they don’t go through the spook alley, they don’t get to go down the cardboard slide. The Moffat brothers, Kayle and David, have always volunteered to build the slide. Kayle built it with David’s help for a couple of years, but now he is serving as a full-time missionary and David is handling it alone. David says that by the time he gets his call in a year or two, Kayle will be back and able to take over again.

It was not much longer in my own life, having seen the burden that my father carried so joyfully, until I too found the thrill and joy of gospel service. In fact, when I returned to the States after completing my assignment in Japan with the occupation troops after World War II, I discovered that one month before I was due to return my name had been presented in stake conference and I had been called to be a counselor in the stake MIA. This was a great blessing to me, for in this position, as I presided at one of the stake meetings one night, I saw a beautiful lady in the congregation who later became my wife.

Elder Hammond’s wife, Bonnie, passed away two years ago. While Elder Hammond misses her terribly, he decided to do something nice for his neighbors on the anniversary of her death. He and other family members made cards for his neighbors acknowledging this anniversary. On the cards, he included a picture of a cherry atop a delicious dessert with the words “She was always the cherry on top.” He gave a bag of fresh cherries with each card. “I want my neighbors to know how much I love her and that I look forward to spending eternity together,” Elder Hammond says.

In the Rio Rancho Stake we held a trek to represent the treks pioneers made many years ago. We all had the opportunity to be dressed in the pioneer attire and feel like authentic pioneers ourselves. We had a total of 19 to 20 carts going through a trail which challenged us physically, mentally, and spiritually. We had to hike 14 miles in order to make it to our Zion (or in other words, base camp). There were so many points along the trail that challenged us, but there was never a point where we gave up on anyone.
The Spirit was so strong at the fireside on the last day that it was hard not to realize what all that the pioneers of old had to endure to give us what we have. I was able to learn so much from this experience, and I am forever grateful for those who traveled so many miles to follow the gospel of Jesus Christ. I hope I may be able to be an example to many of this generation and to future generations, as the pioneers of old are to this generation.
Alexa P., New Mexico

Let me share with you one more child story and then I’ll be back to my outlined patience theme. This story has to do with patience, I believe, and whether it does or not in your minds, I like it and hope you’ll enjoy it. A city family recently moved to the country. Shortly after arrival and settling down, the father borrowed a horse from one of the new neighbors and placed himself upon the horse with his young nine-year-old securely in back of him. After they were mounted upon the horse, a big truck came by and caused a loud noise. The horse shied and off went the father and the son. This father showed great patience in making a comment to his son. Incidentally, I’ve been around horses enough to know that when they misbehave people don’t talk to their sons; they talk to the horses. But he had the patience to turn to his son and say, “If that horse were mine, I’d teach him a thing or two.” The next night at dinner time, when it was quiet, young Billy had his moment and said, “Dad, I talked to Brother Brown and he told me for $125 you can have the horse and teach him anything you want.”

When President Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church in the October 2018 general conference, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. …
“… To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88).
I realized that I needed to rethink how I approached my conversations with those around me, including certain clients at my work who had gotten used to calling me a “Mormon” and a member of the “Mormon Church.”
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came, again in a business context. “You Mormons are such kind people,” a potential client told me. “Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, I still felt something was off. My friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found myself beat back because of the awkwardness of saying the full, lengthy name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And the conversation still always focused on “Mormons.”
I tried to make my interactions feel somewhat more natural. But this turned out to be much more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be sheepish or complacent about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling themselves and other members of the Church “Mormons” at various meetings and other contexts.
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
The next time I had to use the Church’s full name, I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, yes,” I said. He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?” And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth four or five times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, a military general, and a political figure in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Mormon didn’t shed his blood for me or suffer in Gethsemane or die on the cross. Mormon isn’t my God. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you are a Christian?”
“Yes, I am a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do. But in every case, I now make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church. And now I have a great way to naturally testify of Him and His restored Church whenever I’m asked about being “Mormon.”

As I look back over my life and remember the difficult decisions, one stands out far more than others: Should I go on a mission? Mom and dad want me to go. The bishop tells me I should go. Some of my friends are going, but others tell me it would be a mistake. They say: “Think of the fun you’ll miss.” “What about your education?” “How about your girl friend?” It just seems that there is so much going on that I can’t give up two years. What should I do?
Why should you serve a mission? Several things come to my mind as I think about the answer to this searching question. Surely, the answer is easy: The Lord says you should; the prophet has given repeated emphasis to this; your family, Church leaders, and others encourage you to serve—but they are not you. I remember having these thoughts. I also remember how good I felt, from the inside out, from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head, when I finally said yes. I received a confirmation from the Lord that what I had done was good. It was right, and I knew it. For once in my life I had started thinking about others instead of “number one” (me), and that gave me a feeling I have yearned for every day of my life since. It’s rewarding to give of yourself that others might be blessed. This is one of the reasons why our Savior made the following statement: “And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me. He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.” (Matt. 10:38–39.)

Several years ago I took my first photography class. One of the assignments the teacher gave us then was to shoot, develop, print, and mount one photograph each week. On Fridays these photographs were displayed in front of the class and critiqued by the teacher.
After about the third week, one of the students raised his hand and said, “There’s nothing left to take pictures of; all of the good things have been done.”
There were about 40 students in the class, and in the three weeks we’d been displaying photographs, every prominent building, statue, water fountain, and stray dog in the area had been exposed, printed, and dry mounted several times.
The teacher mumbled something about “seeing and imagination” and then dismissed the class. The following Friday the teacher, after the regular display and critique, set out 20 of his own mounted photographs.
“I took these in the parking lot,” he said. “Outside of this building.”
His photographs were beautiful. There were pictures of the abstract designs of cracked paint on curbs, the texture of rusted gutter bars, reflections from windows, rows of head lights that looked like eyes, the design of a hundred car hoods, a student looking for his car in a sea of cars. The photographs were more than just nice images. They made a statement about the culture of our society, about us. The beauty, the communication, the sensitivity—all of the elements of art were in the photographs.
For me, this experience with this teacher was discovery. It formalized something I had already sensed. From that point on, everything around me became something to be seen, to be photographed. I took pictures of pipes on ceilings, vegetables, fruits, tattered billboards, and nearly everything else that I saw. Looking, seeing what I saw opened an entirely new universe for me; everything I saw was alive with excitement. It was a little like a fish discovering water.
After this discovery of seeing, I made another discovery. It was summer, and it was late in the afternoon. The sun was close to the mountains and had turned a warm orange color. I was in my grandmother’s house. The windows on one of her doors are made of hand-cut glass. These windows formed a prism refracting the orange light into an incredible spectrum of color on a white wall. The sun was dropping behind trees and the shapes of leaves were silhouetted on the wall with the colors. The wind was blowing lightly, moving the leaves and the shapes and colors on the wall. It was one of the most beautiful images I’d ever seen.
I had my camera with me, but I knew there was no possibility of catching what I was seeing. I knew the image would be gone in a matter of seconds. I had to appreciate it for what it was, when it was. I realized then that there are many images I can’t photograph that are both beautiful and important to see. Beyond that I realized there are many other things I had not yet been much aware of—sounds, smells, textures.
It was seeing, the recognition, the sensitivity, that was important to photography. What I discovered was that this sensitivity, this awareness is important to every art, including the art of living. I started again, a little differently, to try to see what I’d been seeing but hadn’t been aware of. I have found universes even brighter and more exciting than what I’d discovered by learning to see. I have also found that the more I am aware of and sensitive to the people and the world around me, the more I begin to understand about those people and that world. And the more I understand about the people and the world around me, the more I understand about myself.
Edward Weston: “The photographer’s most important and likewise most difficult task is not learning to manage his camera, or to develop, or to print. It is learning to see.” (The Art of Photography, Time Inc., 1971, p. 17.)
Paul Strand: “It is one thing to photograph people, it is another to make others care about them by revealing the core of their humanness.” (Documentary Photography, Time Inc., 1972, p. 133.)
Henri Cartier-Bresson: “I believe that, through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us which can mold us, but which can also be affected by us. A balance must be established between these two worlds—the one inside us and the one outside us. … And it is this world that we must communicate.” (The Art of Photography, p. 21.)

When Neil was older, he wanted to serve a mission. But he was a little worried. “How can I serve a mission when I know so little?” he prayed.
He felt the answer in his heart. “You don’t know everything, but you know enough.”
That answer gave Neil courage. He obeyed and served a mission in France. Before he left, he went to the temple. There he made special promises, called covenants, with Heavenly Father. He was blessed for going to the temple.

“Hi, Gweg!” Greg could feel his face getting hot even before he looked up to see Melissa standing on the roadside by her bike.
“My name’s not Gweg,” he said crossly, focusing intently again on the basketball hoop he was aiming at.
“What is it, then?” Melissa waited expectantly, her eyes already dancing with laughter.
“You know what it is.”
“Yep. It’s Gweg; that’s what you always say.” She started to giggle.
“My name’s not Gweg,” Greg yelled. “It’s Gweg!”
Melissa burst into laughter and hopped back on her bike. “I was right, then. Bye, Gweggy!”
Greg scowled at her braids streaming out behind her as she pedaled away. It wasn’t fair! He tried and tried to say his Rs, using the exercises that his speech therapist gave him every week. But even though she praised him at the end of each session and told him that he was doing better, he still couldn’t say the words quite right. Worst of all, he couldn’t even say his own name!
“Well, at least we didn’t name you Roger or Roderick,” Dad had chuckled, tousling Greg’s hair. “Don’t worry, Son. Lots of kids have trouble with their Rs, and sometimes other letters too. You’ll get over it.”
But Greg did worry. The Primary president had asked him to tell the story of Joshua in two weeks. He loved to hear about how the children of Israel were led into the Promised Land, and he wanted to do a good job telling it. But what if everyone laughed at him?
The next Sunday at dinner, Greg was quiet as he pushed the food around his plate with his fork. He usually loved Mom’s mashed potatoes; the rich gravy he poured over the top looked like brown lava sliding down a snowy volcano. But gravy lava seemed stupid now, and his food stuck in his throat.
“Is something wrong, Greg?” Mom asked.
Greg nodded soundlessly.
“Is it your Primary talk?” said Dad.
He nodded again.
“Well, I have something to show you.” Dad disappeared into the living room and returned with his Bible. “You know, Greg,” he said, flipping through the pages, “when I was your age, I didn’t like to give talks either, but for a different reason. All those people made me nervous! My mouth got as dry as sandpaper, and I felt like I couldn’t say anything. Then I read about Moses. Here.” He handed the open Bible to Greg. “When you’ve finished your dinner, why don’t you read about how Moses felt when the Lord told him to speak to the people and to Pharaoh. It might help.”
Later, Greg read in Exodus how the Lord appeared to Moses and told him to tell the children of Israel His words. In Exodus 4:10 [Ex. 4:10], Greg read that Moses had said, “But I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.”
Greg kept reading, using the footnotes. In Exodus 6:30 [Ex. 6:30], he saw that Moses was still protesting to the Lord: “Behold, I am of stammering lips, and slow of speech; how shall Pharaoh hearken unto me?”
Greg was astonished. So Moses, the mighty prophet, couldn’t speak very well, either! But the Lord didn’t find another prophet to replace him. He knew that Moses, whom He had called to serve as the Israelite leader, was a righteous man, and He made a way for Moses to do what he had been commanded by sending Aaron to help him. Well, I have lots of people to help me—people like Dad and Mom. A warm, peaceful feeling crept over him. They can help me learn to say my Rs right someday, and I know that the Lord will help me give my talk!
All the next week, Greg practiced and practiced until he knew the whole story by heart. When Sunday finally arrived, he was a little nervous, but he felt ready. He stood at the microphone, took a deep breath, and gave his talk. He still couldn’t say his Rs quite right, and he thought that he heard a giggle from the back of the room. When he sat down, though, he felt good inside. He knew that he had told the story well.
Dad and Mom had come to hear him, and when Primary was over, they both gave him a big hug. “We’re very proud of you,” Mom said, beaming; Dad said, “Way to go, sport.”
Suddenly Greg felt someone cuff his arm playfully. He looked around and saw Melissa standing there. “Good job, Greg,” she said, grinning.
“Thanks,” he said. And he couldn’t help grinning too.

In the cold Alaskan winters, people need wood to burn in their fireplaces. For their weekly service, Elders Fjelsted and Leha’uli went to a local sawmill that has extra wood. They chopped it, piled it into members’ trucks, and delivered the wood to single mothers, older couples, people with disabilities—anyone who needed a little extra help. Those people always mentioned how grateful they were.

These elders also volunteered at a food bank, where they packed food for the needy, and at an elementary school, where they read to the children.

“Our service is making a difference in the community,” Elder Fjelsted says. “People are recognizing us and the Church for the good we do. It is also leading to some teaching opportunities that we hope will help build the kingdom of God in Alaska.”