Gospel Story Finder

I am not a Mormon yet, but I sometimes read the New Era. I want to say thanks for the beautiful pictures in the August New Era, especially the ones by Kris Rasmussen, because I know her. She introduced me to the Church. The first time I saw Kris she was in complete traction (her arms, head, pelvis, and legs). I was on volunteer nurse’s aid duty, and I could hear her laughing clear down the hall. At first I thought her pain pills made her laugh, but the registered nurse said that Kris refused to take pain pills. She was singing Mormon songs with four too many people in her room. She said, “Hi, Becky.” (I had my name tag on, but I didn’t understand how she could read it clear across the room.) “Come in and join us. We need another alto.” (How did she know I sing alto?) That cracked me up, so I went in, and we sang pioneer songs.
That was my favorite wing at the hospital from then on. She was there for many weeks, and we all hated to see her go. She told everybody about Joseph Smith, and if she wasn’t talking, she was listening to the Book of Mormon on cassette tapes. She always asked if it was too loud, but you could tell she wanted everyone to be able to hear it. Sometimes she would get very excited about a part of it, and then she would turn off the tape recorder and tell us about it. She liked the part about the little submarines the Jaredites made and how God made lights for them with his finger. I liked it when she told me about Christ coming to America. She took time to listen to my problems and even introduced me to a cute Mormon guy. I wrote on her body cast too.
Kris believes that God wants her to go on a mission for the Church, and I know that she will in spite of everything. She never said how much it hurt her when she was in the hospital. You could tell it did, but she’d never cry in front of anybody.
Becky FreeportLarkspur, California

About 180 missionaries in the California Carlsbad Mission divided their time between proselyting and helping fire victims. For a month they shoveled ash and debris, hefted sandbags, and helped at evacuation centers.
One elder said, “My shoulders are sore, my back hurts, and my fingernails are dirty from dirt and ash, but my heart is full.”
The reputation of the missionaries’ hard work grew. An engineering official, assessing his needs for a sandbagging project, said with a smile, “We’ll need 195 men or 5 Mormon missionaries.”

Sister Bednar and I knew each other for 19 months and dated for 15 months before we were married. I do not recall ever receiving a single, overwhelming spiritual confirmation that she was "the one." I do recall that as we dated, as we talked, as we became better acquainted, and as we observed and learned about each other in a variety of circumstances, I received many small, simple, and quiet reassurances that she was indeed a remarkable and spiritual woman. All of those simple answers over a period of time led to and produced an appropriate spiritual reassurance that indeed we were to be married. That reassurance did not come all at once; rather, it was spiritually subtle and gradually distilled upon our minds as the dews from heaven, as described in the 121st section of the Doctrine and Covenants.

Now please understand that I am not trying to suggest the experience Sister Bednar and I had is precisely what will or should happen to you. I am suggesting that we should not feel spiritually inadequate or unqualified if we do not receive a big and immediate answer to a request or plea for help the first time we ask. And we will be better served spiritually by studying and understanding the Lord's pattern of revealing things to us ". . . line upon line, precept upon precept . . . ."

After my military service, I pursued an education in military administration in the West German government. It was quite demanding, but I gained a broad background in such things as finance, real estate, legal affairs, and so forth. I also had a calling to serve in the district presidency. While my fellow students were busy studying on Sundays, I was fulfilling Church assignments and spending time with my family. It was hard, but the Lord’s promises are true, and you can rely on them. I did as well as any of my fellow students.

The neonatal resuscitation training concerns in Ghana mirror those of Lesotho and Uganda. Dr. David Gourley, a Salt Lake City physician and member of the Humanitarian Services advisory committee, reported that “a simplified course designed for rural midwives and community nurses will provide basic resuscitation skills and equipment necessary to lower Ghana’s infant mortality rate.”
Dr. Gourley related the following account from a recently trained midwife: “Dora attended a breech delivery. She thought the baby was dead because he was floppy and not breathing. Dora went through the initial steps of resuscitation. She needed only to correctly position the baby’s airway and suction with a bulb syringe before the baby began breathing and tone improved. Today the baby is thriving.”

“I had the desire to one day become a missionary like them,” Bishop says. “Unfortunately, I was already too old to serve a full-time mission. So, I decided to use my gift as a communicator to spread the knowledge I acquired following my conversion.”
Bishop says he invited all his friends and acquaintances to meet with missionaries and come to church with him.
“Bishop is completely friendly and engaging,” Sister London Litchfield, former mission leader in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, shared. “He doesn’t see any boundaries between friendships, which I think is part of what makes him such a great missionary. Quite frankly, he is an inspiration to us.”
Bishop hasn’t kept count of how many friends and acquaintances he has introduced to the gospel. But several years ago, he set a goal: to help bring three people into the Church every year. And he has done just that—every year, without fail.
Last year, he helped teach five people in January alone, so he increased his yearly goal to 10. But it appears he could have aimed higher. By June, he had helped 13 people join the Church.
He has spoken to many of his family and friends about the gospel already, but Abidjan is a densely populated city, and his friendly, outgoing nature allows him to strike up a conversation with anyone and everyone: banana vendors, families walking along the streets, or other drivers stuck in traffic with him.
“I first build a friendship with people I meet in my neighborhood, then as our relationship grows, I introduce them to the gospel,” he explains.
“We often think that they’re very difficult conversations to have,” said Wade Litchfield, former president of the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission. “But they’re not at all scary to him. They’re natural to him.”
And Bishop’s advice to young missionaries or anyone for sharing the gospel? “Don’t be afraid. Show a good example. Be patient and let your love for God and your fellow men be above everything else.”
Bishop’s conversations about religion with friends and with strangers—the “friends he may someday meet”—stem from a place of caring. That genuine care for others is just part of his nature. And he may have perfected the most powerful, loving approach to missionary work in putting love, compassion, and a “mark of attention” above all else.

The first came one afternoon in one of those rare days when I was in my office. I had been interviewing missionaries -- and the Elder serving as my secretary came to my door just as I was concluding an interview with a missionary and said "President Christensen, there is a General Authority on the line who would like to talk to you." Most of the time, when a General Authority calls a mission president, it is NOT good! In fact most often it is to discuss a problem. So, I closed my office door and picked up the telephone. "Hello, this is President Christensen" I said. The General Authority identified himself and began to ask me several pointed and detailed questions about one of our missionaries who had completed his mission some months before. His line of questioning went something like this in a very NON-SMILING VOICE (Do you know what a NON SMILING VOICE sounds like?) "President, did you have Elder _____ in your mission?" "Yes I did I responded courteously. "Well I need to know about him!" "OH NO" I thought. Was there a problem? Had he made a mistake? He was a great missionary. To my knowledge he was one of the best. I gave several positive answers to his every inquiry. Then he coaxed a second time, "President, I need to know what kind of missionary he was!" With confidence I replied "one of the best missionaries in our mission". How did he get along with his companions? Came a second round of the same questions. "Did you interview him often and can you vouch for his worthiness?" he asked. "Yes, I interviewed him often. In fact I have taught him along with all our other missionaries to live their lives according to their temple covenants and the 15 critical questions (the temple recommend questions) which they must answer in order to maintain their recommend."

With each question I remembered this wonderful missionary -- his good nature and worthiness. Then I questioned him, "Elder So and So, is there a problem with our former missionary?" There was silence on his end of the line.. for just a moment and then he asked one more time "are you sure he was an extraordinary missionary and worthy priesthood man?" "Yes" I answered again without hesitation. Then the tone of his voice changed from the NON SMILING VOICE to a CHEERFUL and almost chuckling voice (I believe he felt my anxiety and felt the need to break the tension). "Well good, I am glad you feel that way about him, because he is dating my secretary and I will not allow her to continue down the road to marriage if he isn't the best there is." I first felt a relief that there was nothing wrong and then I felt a special warmth and gratitude and love for this former missionary and his soon to be fiancé that I had not yet met. We visited for a few minutes longer about other things and then concluded the conversation. As I hung up the telephone I leaned back in my chair and felt a rush of JOY and a HAPPINESS for this young man who had become a part of my life. I felt so happy for him, that as a friend and priesthood leader. I could answer each question the way I did. He is here in the devotional today. And so is his wife! They have been blessed with their first child.

Robbin watched as Dad measured flour, salt, and shortening into a bowl. After adding a little water, he started stirring the dough together.
“Can I help?” Robbin asked. “I want to make sure we make enough logs to make a huge house this year!”
“Sure, you can help,” Dad said. “But it doesn’t matter who builds the biggest house. We make log cabins to help us remember the blessings we have.”
Robbin’s eyebrows pinched together as she watched. “But you always tell us about the amazing house you and Mom built the first year you were married.”
Dad looked over at Mom and smiled. “There’s never been one like it since.” As he started rolling out the dough, he said, “As fun as our little crust cabins are, do you remember why we make them?”
Robbin nodded. “But tell me again.”
Robbin inched around the table so she could see Dad better. He cut the dough into thin strips and put them on a cookie sheet. Then he slid them into the oven.
Dad came over and leaned on the counter. “And we make our log cabins every year to remind us of the many blessings Heavenly Father has given us.”
“And because it’s fun!” said Robbin.
Mom and Dad laughed. “Yes, it is.”
Dad checked the pie crust. The white strips he’d put in the oven had turned a beautiful golden color. “Done!” He slid the piecrust “logs” onto a rack to cool.
Robbin sniffed the freshly baked pie-crust logs. They smelled warm and delicious.
Later that day Robbin’s cousins came over. Mom brought out a large plate piled high with logs ready to use. She put the plate next to a bowl of whipped cream. All the children hurried to the table.
Know what’s fun? Starting a new family tradition! Like starting Thanksgiving in October with our friends in Canada!
“Wait!” said Mom. “Before you begin, who can remember the story of the log cabins?”
Robbin felt happy inside as one of her cousins started telling the story. They had a house and plenty of food. She was glad they had a special way to celebrate all the blessings Heavenly Father had given them.

Many North Americans cannot imagine Thanksgiving without a large turkey, roasted, ready for carving, and proudly displayed in the center of the dining table.In our family the turkey must not only taste deliciously like American turkey, but must look the part as well. This has at times become a concerning issue, as we have celebrated Thanksgiving in different parts of the world.

In the meat markets in France, after plucking all the feathers from all types of poultry, the butchers display the birds by hanging them upside down from the ceiling. You can pick out the bird you prefer. In our first year in France where we were serving a mission, my wife, Kathy approached the French butcher, and said in her best French, "J'ai besoin d'une dinde," ("I need a turkey"). He pointed to a bird hanging from the ceiling, "voila, une dinde," ("there's a turkey"). She looked puzzled. It did not look like an American turkey. Its neck was much too long; it's body much too small. It took a few visits, but after much effort from my industrious wife and the butcher, she found a bird that looked quite like an American turkey. Our local French grocer found one for us each year we lived there.

I am in awe of the special relationship between a young missionary, one of the first to the Hawaiian Islands in 1850, and that of a faithful Hawaiian man, a descendent of high chiefs. Their statute is outside, on the administration side of this building.

It commemorates the special bond these two great Latter-day Saints cultivated as they translated the Book of Mormon into the Hawaiian language almost 170 years ago. I am referring to George Q. Cannon, lovingly called P?kuniahi by the Hawaiian Saints and Jonathan N?pela, both who dedicated their lives in building up the kingdom of God. Their testimonies were solid, even as they experienced trials and despair. For N?pela, he lost his judgeship in the Wailuku circuit court when he converted to the Church. Later in life, his beautiful wife contracted leprosy and was exiled to Kalaupapa on the island of Moloka?i. Out of his love for her, he followed her there to care for her, knowing it was an eventual death sentence since there was no cure.

After his family’s conversion to the Church in England when he was 13, Cannon sailed to America two years later. His mother died during the voyage. When he arrived in the United States, he lived with his Uncle John Taylor and his father’s sister, Leonora Taylor, in Nauvoo. His father passed away not long after. Cannon worked in the printing house under the direction of John Taylor. There he learned the skills that he would need 12 years later when he printed Ka Buke A Moramona. Like many others in the early days of church history, N?pela and Cannon suffered severe trials, but due to their commitment to the gospel and their great love for the Savior, they overcame misfortune and accomplished great things in their life.

After calming his shoeless family, Brother Godfrey used his wife’s cell phone to call their home teacher, Jason Meyers, who lived 30 minutes away in Cedar Falls. Without hesitation, Brother Meyers said he and two other members were on their way. When they arrived, Brother Meyers jumped out of the vehicle to hug Brother Godfrey and his family.
“It was good, because we didn’t have any family out there. But our ward family was there for us,” Brother Godfrey said while choking back some tears.
They whisked the Godfreys out of the disaster area to stay at the Relief Society president’s house, where members brought food and clothing.

Elizabeth sat contentedly next to her grandmother and idly traced the pattern of the old woman’s faded blue gingham apron. A few strands of her grandmother’s yellow-white hair, smelling faintly of gingerbread and apples, brushed the child’s cheek.
“Grandma, tell me one of your long-ago stories,” Elizabeth murmured lazily.
“What kind of story today, Bess?”
“Tell me about when you were a girl living in England before you joined the Church and came to live here in Canada.”
“Oh, child, that was so many years ago! Let me think.” The old woman tilted her head in thought. Then her wrinkled face broke into a sudden smile. “Have I ever told you about our village’s May Day celebration?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.
“What a grand time it was, Bess. Before dawn each May first, my sisters and I would go into the woods to pick flowers and branches to decorate our cottage with. That morning our mum would make crowns of leaves and wildflowers for us to wear as we went singing from door to door. But the best part was the May Queen.”
“Your town had a real queen, like in fairy tales?”
“No, only a make-believe one for May Day,” Grandma replied. “The village chose the prettiest girl, and she rode in a flower-covered cart to the center of town.”
“Were you ever picked?” asked Elizabeth.
“No,” chuckled Grandma. “I was too plain. Of course, I always wanted to be, but I was never asked.”
“What happened then?”
“The May Queen, wearing a crown of wildflowers, was taken to the maypole to preside at the spring party given in her honor.”
“What’s a maypole?”
“It was a tall tree that had been cut down that morning. After all its branches were cut off, it was placed in the village green, and flowers and ribbons in all colors of the rainbow were hung from the top of it.”
“And then the party started?”
“Yes, love. The May Queen sat beneath an arch of flowers and watched the villagers dance around the maypole, welcoming spring. When I smell the first blooms of the lilacs each year, I feel like I’m a little girl in England again.”
“Grandma, I think I hear Mommy calling. I guess I’d better go now,” Elizabeth said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.
Throughout the last week of April it rained constantly. Elizabeth stared out the window, muttering, “It will never be sunny in time. Everything will be ruined.” But on the morning of the first of May, the sun broke cheerily through the clouds and covered the land with warmth and brightness. Tossing back her covers, Elizabeth leaped excitedly out of bed. By the time her parents came downstairs for breakfast, Elizabeth had finished her cereal and juice and was slipping out the door.
“What’s the rush today, kitten?” her father asked.
“I have a lot to do, Daddy.”
“Have fun, sweetheart, but be sure to play closeby,” her mother said.
“I will, Mommy. I promise.”
For the next three hours Elizabeth was busy behind the barn. Occasionally she had to run up to her room. From downstairs her mother could hear Elizabeth’s dresser drawers sliding open and slamming shut, followed by the thumping of Elizabeth’s feet as she bounded down the stairs.
Shortly after noon, Elizabeth knocked on her grandmother’s door, bursting with excitement.
“Come in, Bess. I’ve just baked some biscuits.”
“Oh, Grandma, you have to come with me right now! I want to show you the lilacs. They’re blooming behind the barn.”
“Oh, how lovely! Let’s go pick a bouquet for the parlor.”
As Grandma walked around the corner of the barn, her mouth dropped open in amazement. The branches of a young peach tree, decorated with brightly colored hair ribbons, swayed gently in the breeze. Beside it, a rickety wooden chair had been transformed into a throne of roses and daisies.
“Sit down, Your Highness,” said Elizabeth with a curtsy. “The May Day party is starting, and you are the May Queen—the fairest in the land.”
As the old woman slowly seated herself, a crown of blossoms was placed on her head. Gracefully spreading the faded apron over her knees, she blinked back tears of happiness while she watched Elizabeth dance around the peach-tree maypole.

Last week on a flight to New York I had a fascinating conversation with a fellow passenger. For much of the journey we were each pouring over the reading material we had brought with us. I was thinking about my remarks today and when he had finished the article he was reading I informed him that I was thinking about an idea and could use his help.

I asked him how he would define contention. He thought for a moment and then answered: "passionate disagreement." I responded: "Anything else?" He replied: "Heated but under control exchanges." He said that in the business world where he spent his hours, he hoped that contentious exchanges were kept professional.

I inquired if he thought there was more or less contention now than fifteen or twenty years ago. He sighed and responded that his sense was that there was more contention now, in part because of the development of technology. Today, there are more platforms through which people can express disagreement. Multiple media outlets and means of communication mean than our exchanges with others are ubiquitous and often impersonal because they are at a distance. He added that financial pressures in his world often contributed to contention and caused people to become cynical and to withhold trust.

Our conversation ranged widely. He suggested that people today often focus more on the noise surrounding what others are saying than on understanding the point someone is trying to make. We noted some of the many manifestations of contention - arguing, challenging, ascribing unflattering motives, road rage, and more. I suggested that we consider some pairs of contrasting terms:
Contention and harmonyCompetition and collaborationZero-sum exercises and win-win exercises
What is common to contention, competition, and zero-sum exercises is that they involve an effort to prevail, to defeat, and to exert superiority. What is common to harmony, collaboration, and win-win exercises is an effort to share, to work together, and to benefit and bless one another.

During the course of our conversation we each learned much. We were coming from different perspectives and different experiences. The longer we talked, the more we found that we had in common.

When the plane landed, I remarked that I wished we had begun our conversation even earlier and that the flight was all too short. I thanked him for what I had learned from him and noted that though we came from different backgrounds we shared much in common. He had been born in Puerto Rico and had come with his family to New York City as a child. We discussed how relations between the different races and ethnic groups in our nation's largest city had changed for the better during the course of his lifetime.

As we parted, I observed that during our entire conversation there had not been a single moment of contention. We had not argued or challenged, but we had listened carefully and in the process I had learned much. He smiled broadly and said that he felt the same way about our conversation and that he also had learned much. We exchanged addresses and I promised to honor his request to send him a copy of my remarks this morning. In doing so, I will also send him a copy of the Book of Mormon which is full of insights on the subject of contention and peace.

The following example illustrates how ministering is part of the soul of the African people. In June 1989 the government in Ghana decided that the LDS Church was a threat to the security of Ghana. They ordered the Church to be shut down. They confiscated our chapels and even arrested some of the leaders, one of whom was the president of the Koforidua Branch, Brother Richard Ahadjie.
Brother Ahadjie was arrested and put in jail for eight days. When released, he was required to report to the police station every day for a month.
During this period, Brother Ahadjie sought direction from the mission president as to how to take care of the branch members as they could no longer congregate as a church. The mission president instructed him to simply watch over, to minister, to the members.
Determined to follow the counsel of his leader and guided by the Spirit, Brother Ahadjie, with some of the branch leaders, devised a plan to take care of the members, to truly minister to them. Every Sunday for the next 17 months, they visited each member of their branch. Departing each Sunday morning at 4:00 a.m., they gathered at the home of a brother who lived on his farm in the bush. They administered the sacrament together and read from the Book of Mormon. They then paired themselves after the meeting and moved out to visit every family and minister to them.
Each Sunday they conducted these ministering visits arriving home around midnight. For 17 months they repeated this pattern. For 17 months they ministered as the Savior would to the members of the Koforidua Branch. Finally, the ban was lifted. The government realized that the Church was not a threat to the security of Ghana. On the contrary, the Church was a blessing to its people.
Shortly after the ban was lifted, a sacrament meeting was held. It was a fast and testimony Sunday. What was done by Brother Ahadjie in his branch was done in various forms by other branch presidents. No doubt the mission president was concerned by how many members would have been lost during this period known as “The Freeze,” even though he was not in Ghana. To everyone’s delight, the attendance at the fast and testimony meeting was 120%. Not only did the members return, but many nonmembers came, wanting to understand what kind of church would be so dedicated to its members.

I want to tell you about my little brother, Hans. When he was born, he didn’t seem to like being here on earth. He would wake up in the night, and when he saw that he was still here, he would start crying. He would only stop when Mom fed him. After he got older, he seemed to feel better about being here.
We slept in the same room, and at bedtime we always played games. He would never just go to sleep. After Mom kissed us goodnight and shut the door, Hans would jump up, hold onto the rail of his crib, and begin to bounce. He would wave and yell at me until we both were laughing hard. I really liked sharing a bedroom with him, even if he was a baby.
Some people think that babies are a bother, but Hans wasn’t. He was good. He would watch us, then try to do everything we did. He used to go around the house picking up little pieces of rubbish that no one else saw. Then he would run to the wastebasket and throw them in. He always tried to help everybody. He was smart about it too. One day he decided to help Mom. He climbed up onto the stove when he was alone in the kitchen. Later we found him sitting beside the burners stirring a pot full of cold water. When we came in, he clapped his hands and said, “Oh, see!”
Hans was very adventurous. He wasn’t afraid of anything. His best trick was to climb up our big bookcase. He could get nearly to the ceiling. Mom always lifted him down, but I thought that he was better than a mountain climber.
Once I did something terrible to him without meaning to. He was coming up the stairs, steadying himself with his hand on the wall. When he got to the door at the top, his hand poked through where the door hinge is. I didn’t see him, and I slammed the door on his finger. He screamed and screamed. Mom and Dad rushed him to the hospital because the end of his finger was badly cut and he needed stitches. I felt awful. But when he came back home, he gave me a hug, so I knew that he still loved me. He was really brave and hardly ever cried about his finger, and he wasn’t even two years old! I felt awfully proud of him.
When the weather was nice, we used to go for walks together down the street. He really liked to play in the vacant field, running on his little legs along the paths. He liked the flowers and bugs and birds too.
I guess that we had the most fun one day when Mom went visiting teaching. She left Daddy to take care of us. He was busy in his study, so we looked for something fun to do until Mom got home. Hans opened a cupboard and took out a big can of flour. He took off the lid and showed it to me. It looked like something fun to play with, so we took it into the living room, where he poured it all onto the carpet. Then we rubbed it in big circles. If felt soft and nice. Hans rubbed a white circle around one of his eyes. He looked so funny! Mom came home right after that, and she couldn’t get mad when she saw how funny he looked. She just got her camera and took a picture of us.
Now I’m really glad that she took the picture. It helps me to look at it. It helps me to tell you about Hans too. You see, he got really sick last month—Mom said it was meningitis. Even though the doctor and the bishop came to help, he died, and I don’t ever want to forget him.
We all cried when Hans died. Mom and Dad hugged each other and cried. They hugged me too. Our neighbors and friends came over, and they cried. I’m glad that our friends were there. Mom and Dad had to be gone sometimes, getting things ready to bury Hans. It helped to talk to my friends. It helped to just sit on the porch with them beside me.
Mom decided to make a little white suit for Hans to wear for his funeral. She got the pants made, but when she had trouble with the jacket, one of her friends took it and finished sewing it. She and Dad went to the mortuary to put the suit on Hans.
After Mom and Dad came back, we all dressed in our Sunday clothes. My grandmas and grandpas were there too. We went together to the mortuary to see Hans. The stake president, who is also the mortician, was there, and he put his arm around me. That helped me feel better.
I never saw anyone dead before. I knew that Hans would be different, that he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I wondered how I would feel when I saw him.
Mom held my hand, and we went into a beautiful room with lots of flowers. There was quiet music playing. The room was just for our family so that we could be alone with Hans.
Hans was lying in a casket. It looked like a little white bed. His eyes were closed. He looked different, but he looked nice.
Hans’s funeral was in the morning. All my cousins and aunts and uncles came. Our friends and neighbors were there, too, and we sang “I Know My Father Lives.” Mom and Dad played a song for Hans on the piano and then talked a lot about Jesus.
Hans is buried near a little pine tree. I like that tree. Dad says that we can watch it grow. It will remind us that Hans is really alive, too, only with Jesus.
I know that Hans will always be my brother because Mom and Dad were married in the temple. I didn’t know how important that was until Hans died. Now I do.
Sometimes we go to the cemetery to put flowers on Hans’s grave. I told Mom that it’s kind of like the park where we had our family reunion. She hugged me tightly and told me that when Resurrection Day comes, the good people who have been buried will meet with everybody that they love, and it will be the biggest family reunion that you ever saw. I can hardly wait to hug Hans when he is resurrected. I miss him a lot, but I know that he is happy because he lives with Heavenly Father and Jesus.
When I die, I won’t be afraid, because I will see Jesus, and I will be with Hans again. I am going to try to be as good as Hans was so that we can live together some day.
When I take the sacrament, I think about how Jesus was resurrected so that we can be too. I love Jesus for doing that. Even though Hans is dead, because of Jesus I can feel happy.

One extremity occurs at the end of life. Many precious family experiences tell how we help each other hold on and let go at those tender times. Here is one our family holds dear.
After joining the Church, my mother became a young BYU student in Provo. She stayed with the family of Gerrit de Jong, Jr. An accomplished composer and linguist from Amsterdam, Gerrit de Jong served many years as a temple sealer. He would kindly ask those attending the temple, perhaps nervous at being there for the first time – would you like me to perform your sealing in English, Dutch, German, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian, or perhaps some other language?
By affection, our family called Gerrit de Jong Grandpa de Jong and his wonderful wife Thelma Grandma de Jong. I became a namesake of Gerrit de Jong. Because of him, I am the only person I know with a Dutch first name, an American middle name, and a Chinese last name.
We enjoyed many Sunday dinners with Grandpa and Grandma. No meal was complete until we had finished the homemade banana cream pie and laughed as we together washed and put the dishes away.
Grandpa’s physical body deteriorated toward the end of his rich and full life. He suffered excruciating pain. It hurt so much he wanted to die. But Grandma was not ready to let him go. Despite his great pain, Grandpa determined he would hold on for Grandma.
Finally Grandma was able to find peace. She said, “I patted his cheek, and told him I would be all right. I let him go.” Shortly thereafter, Grandpa peacefully moved on.

“The Lord has called you to serve as president of our Primary,” the branch president told me. It had been only a year since I had left the Laurel class and only two years since I had been baptized into the Church. I was incredulous.
“I don’t have the patience required to teach children,” I told him.
“Do you believe your calling came from God?” he asked. “When He calls us, He qualifies us.”1
His words filled me with confidence, and immediately I knew that the Lord must need me in Primary. I had no idea how to fulfill my new calling, but I knew He would guide me.
I desired to do the best job I could, but a few months later my mother was diagnosed with cancer. In addition, I was studying systems engineering. I found it difficult to meet all of my responsibilities at home, at the university, and in Primary. My spirits began to flag, and one Sunday at church everything came to a head, and the tears began to flow.
A fellow ward member noticed and gave me some wonderful advice: “Judith, the best way to get through trials is to lose yourself in the gospel and in service to others,” he said. “By doing so, you will see how the Lord will ease your burdens.”
As I followed his encouraging advice, my attitude changed, my faith was strengthened, and I was filled with a determination to serve the Lord. My trials continued, but I dedicated myself to my calling and looked forward to seeing the children each Sunday. They taught me something every week as they showed me their testimonies through their actions. As the months passed, I saw how the Lord was molding my character and how I was developing gifts and talents I didn’t know I had.
The following year I left Barranquilla, Colombia, to go to Bogotá for a month with my mother because she needed chemotherapy. During that time I prayed constantly and felt close to the Lord. I decided to change my university major, and through inspiration, I learned that the Lord wanted me to devote my life to teaching children. When I returned to school, I began working on a degree in special education.
I knew that Heavenly Father had given me my calling in Primary to prepare me. As I served, I discovered my true vocation, and as I lived the gospel and lost myself in service, I felt that I was in the Lord’s arms.
The testimony I gained while serving in the Primary presidency and later in a stake Primary presidency has sustained me as a member of the Church. I have learned how to teach with love, to see with the eyes of a child, and to seek the Lord for guidance and inspiration.
Each day when I teach at a bilingual school in my city, I think about the efforts, challenges, and blessings of those years. The children who were in Primary back then are now teenagers, but their eyes still shine with love for the Savior and His gospel.
I know that when the Lord calls us, He teaches and trains us and places leaders in our path to help us live this beautiful gospel of Jesus Christ.

When my family moved to Japan, it was scary moving to a new place and making new friends. On my first day of kindergarten we were doing an art project. We had to trace our hands on paper. I noticed that a boy at my table was having a hard time tracing his hand. I wanted to help him, but I was nervous. Then I remembered that in family scripture study we had been talking about how Jesus loved and served others. I helped the boy trace his hand. It made him happy, and I felt happy too. Heavenly Father blessed me to not be nervous and helped me make a new friend too!

One of my current stewardships is for members of the Church incarcerated in correctional institutions in Utah.
Just before Christmas, my wife, Mary, and I attended a training seminar required by the state for those who volunteer at prisons. At the beginning of the session, the prison chaplain asked the 40 or so volunteers present to identify the church or other non-profit organization with which they were affiliated. About half of the volunteers were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As we went around the room, the first few volunteers stated their affiliation and used the full name of the Church. Then, row by row, person by person, other members simply stated their affiliation as “The Church of Jesus Christ.”
As individuals whom I had not previously met repeated “The Church of Jesus Christ,” “The Church of Jesus Christ,” it felt to me like a series of small but powerful testimonies. These faithful volunteers were identifying themselves as followers of Christ, committed to His admonition to come unto those in prison. [11]
Is using the correct name of the Church “consequential”? That is surely my experience, both as I have listened to others and in my own conversations with those of different faiths, as I have felt the testifying power of using the full name of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

“When Elder [David A.] and Sister [Susan] Bednar were married, they consistently had family prayer, scripture study, and family home evening with their three sons. Sometimes things did not go well, and Elder and Sister Bednar wondered if their efforts were worthwhile. Now and then during scripture study there were outbursts such as, ‘He’s touching me!’ ‘Make him stop looking at me!’ and ‘Mom, he’s breathing my air!’ Family prayers were sometimes interrupted with giggling and poking. And family home evening lessons were not always calm with three active, noisy boys.
“But they kept trying.” 1