Gospel Story Finder

In October 2005, President James E. Faust told the following story,
"I recently recalled a historic meeting in Jerusalem about 17 years ago. It was regarding the lease for the land on which the Brigham Young University's Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies was later built. Before this lease could be signed, President Ezra Taft Benson and Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, then president of Brigham Young University, agreed with the Israeli government on behalf of the Church and the university not to proselyte in Israel. You might wonder why we agreed not to proselyte. We were required to do so in order to get the building permit to build that magnificent building which stands in the historic city of Jerusalem. To our knowledge the Church and BYU have scrupulously and honorably kept that nonproselyting commitment. After the lease had been signed, one of our friends insightfully remarked, 'Oh, we know that you are not going to proselyte, but what are you going to do about the light that is in their eyes?' He was referring to our students who were studying in Israel.
"What was that light in their eyes which was so obvious to our friend? The Lord Himself gives the answer: 'And the light which shineth, which giveth you light, is through him who enlighteneth your eyes, which is the same light that quickeneth your understandings.'[1] Where did that light come from? Again the Lord gives the answer: 'I am the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.'[2] The Lord is the true light, 'and the Spirit enlighteneth every man through the world, that hearkeneth to the voice of the Spirit.'[3] This light shows in our countenances as well as in our eyes."[4]

It was my first and only Christmas in the Illinois Chicago (Spanish-speaking) Mission, and I saw that one of our investigators was alone and would have no presents. His name was Tito Portillo. He’d been a Catholic missionary in Mexico, and he was really struggling with accepting the Book of Mormon. We decided to give him a triple combination as a gift.
As we entered his home on Christmas Eve, there was a terrible feeling of loneliness. He was having a hard time being in the United States since his family was in Mexico. But when we gave him the gift, his whole attitude changed. He smiled and we knew he was grateful.
After only a few weeks, he was able to quote scriptures from the Book of Mormon, just as he did from the Bible. He was eventually baptized, and is now serving as a stake missionary, sharing the Book of Mormon with others.
I’m so fortunate to have been there to see the change the Book of Mormon made in his life. What a great gift to each of us from the Lord.
—Debra MaylinEagle, Idaho

I should like to tell you a story. If you have already heard something similar, no matter—the moral is worth revisiting. As the story goes, the airline company Air France opened an office in Atlanta, Georgia. Some weeks later, the company’s chief officer called the Atlanta office. A receptionist answered and, in her charming Southern accent, said, “Air France.”
The proper Frenchman was disturbed. Speaking to the office manager, he said, “We cannot have someone answering the phone ‘Air France’; it must be ‘Air Fränce’!”
Some weeks later, the company executive called again. The same receptionist answered the phone. She said, “Air Fränce—can I hep ya?”
The moral is clear. It is much easier to dress up the outside than to change what is within. It is easier to put on an appearance than it is to alter one’s nature.

Twenty Scouts and their leaders of the Lanakila Ward, Honolulu Hawaii West Stake, hiked over 50 miles through the world’s largest dormant volcano, Haleakala. The volcano, called the House of the Sun, stands 10,025 feet above sea level on the island of Maui.

The group struggled through the changes in altitude as well as differences in temperature that sometimes tested their endurance. But they were rewarded with some amazing sights. They happened upon some silversword plants, famous because they are found only in that particular volcanic crater. At the summit they had a panoramic view of four of the Hawaiian Islands through the mist-filled, chilly air.

Besides earning their Historic Trails Awards, the group helped repair the trail by filling in the dangerous eroded shortcuts made by other hikers. Following their week-long hike before they left for home, the group presented an inspiring sacrament meeting to the members of the Hana Branch.

The boys and their leaders had many experiences that brought them closer together and which taught them to rely on our Heavenly Father for guidance and protection. They were glad to return home but were glad to have been on what they considered to be a great adventure.

Perhaps the most memorable pioneer stalwarts were the Saints who made the journey in handcart companies. These companies brought nearly 3,000 pioneers west between 1856 and 1860. In 1856, two handcart companies, with 1,075 pioneers under the leadership of James G. Willie and Edward Martin, left later in the year than planned, and they encountered early winter storms in present-day Wyoming. Peter Howard McBride, then but a boy of six years, was a member of the Martin Company. His father, after helping push handcarts through the icy river, died in the snow and freezing cold that night. Peter’s mother was sick; his older sister, Jenetta, watched out for the younger children. Her shoes had worn out, and her feet left bloody tracks in the snow. On the banks of the Sweetwater River, the wind blew their tent down during the night. Everyone scampered out as the snow covered the tent—everyone except little Peter. According to his account: “In the morning I heard someone say, ‘How many are dead in this tent?’ My sister said, ‘Well, my little brother must be frozen to death in that tent.’ So they jerked the tent loose, sent it scurrying over the snow. My hair was frozen to the tent. I picked myself up and came out quite alive, to their surprise.”

“Six years ago my wife, Sachiko, died from cancer. Others worried that our family of seven children might fall apart without a mother, but that is the way the world thinks. We knew there is great strength in the gospel, so we continued to have family home evening and family prayer and scripture study. These have been very helpful in strengthening our family bonds.
“Because we had the gospel in our home, our children knew where their mother was. The gospel blessed their lives, and they felt that they needed to share those blessings with others. The children have gone on missions, one after another.”—Masahiro Yonamine, Japan

Looking for ideas for an Eagle project? Check out what these youths did:
Clark Rogers of Madison, Alabama, teamed up with Dr. Danny Cartwright, a pediatrician in his town, to spread the antismoking message. Clark oversaw a committee that gathered information about smoking advertising. He and Dr. Cartwright then held a press conference about why teens shouldn’t smoke. The press conference was featured in three newspapers and two evening news shows.

Equally important in shaping and influencing his life was his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Although this strong woman gave occasional leadership, her primary role appeared to be support to the family. She gave birth to eleven children and endured faithfully as all but four preceded her in death. During her life, she watched three of her children and one grandson die as a result of ruthless mob violence and persecution.

Lucy prepared herself early in her marriage to raise a prophet. On one occasion she became seriously ill, and the doctors said she would die. Lucy records that she “made a solemn covenant with God that if He would let me live I would endeavor to serve him according to the best of my abilities.” After a voice assured her that she would live, she told her mother, “the Lord will let me live, if I am faithful to the promise which I made to him, to be a comfort to my mother, my husband, and my children” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, by His Mother, Lucy Mack Smith, ed. Preston Nibley, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1979, p. 34).

She gave continual encouragement, support, and strength to her son, Joseph the Prophet. His mother was the first person with whom young Joseph shared some of his momentous experiences of the Sacred Grove. Years later, he shared with her the joy and relief he felt when the Lord allowed others to view the sacred plates of gold. Lucy wrote that “Joseph threw himself down beside me, and exclaimed, … ‘you do not know how happy I am: the Lord has now caused the plates to be shown to three more besides myself. They have seen an angel … and they will have to bear witness to the truth of what I have said, for now they know for themselves, that I do not go about to deceive the people, and I feel as if I was relieved of a burden which was almost too heavy for me to bear” (Lucy Mack Smith, History, p. 152).

Her determination to testify to the restoration of the gospel may have led her to dictate her well-known History of Joseph Smith. This was a major undertaking in her day. The book’s importance to the Church today is immeasurable! It contains many details of the Prophet Joseph’s life that might never have been known otherwise. It stands as a monument to the devotion of Lucy Mack Smith and her family.

Like great parents of all ages, Lucy turned to prayer for divine help to sustain her family. During the march from Ohio to Missouri known as Zion’s Camp, Joseph and Hyrum were seriously ill with cholera, and their lives were almost taken. At one point, “Hyrum sprang to his feet and exclaimed, ‘Joseph, we shall return to our families. I have had an open vision, in which I saw mother kneeling under an apple tree; and she is even now asking God, in tears, to spare our lives. … The Spirit testifies, that her prayers … will be answered’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History, p. 229).

Elder Meurs told the story of his parents, who lived in the area, joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1958.
Fred and Lois Meurs, strong Christians from different faiths were actively searching for someone to answer their gospel questions. After carefully studying the New Testament, they began to search for a church that had teachings that were consistent with Jesus’s teachings.
They had questions about the purpose of life, priesthood authority, what happens when we die, ordinances like baptism, and the role of prophets and apostles. They had spoken to the religious leaders of the community, but no one could give them the answers they were searching for. They began to earnestly pray for someone to answer their questions.
That same week, two full-time missionaries, Elder Jones and Elder Erikson, knocked on their door and said they had a message about Jesus Christ to share with them. Fred and Lois asked them all their questions, and the missionaries answered every one. Three weeks later the Meurs were baptised and confirmed. Some other families joined soon after, and the first Warrnambool Branch was formed.

Try to think of a time when your prayer was answered. That can count as your first seed. I have had prayers for lost keys answered, and I have had prayers for lost life plans answered. These prayers were answered when I turned my idea for where the keys were or my idea for what I wanted to have happen in my life over to Heavenly Father and simply followed His guidance. Now, I can rely on those experiences when other losses come. I know that if I listen, I can find what I am seeking.

Over the holiday, I misplaced the keys to my car. The time I spent worrying and looking was making it hard to concentrate on the service and fun I wanted to enjoy with my family. I knelt many times, but it wasn’t until I pled, “Heavenly Father, I want to serve my family, but this is taking up so much of my energy. I know keys are not important, but I really want to be fully present to serve. I will try to forget about the keys.” Later that day, I walked into my laundry room, and the drawer where we keep batteries was open with the keys lying inside. This is not my regular spot for keeping my keys. Such a small thing, but big to me. And now, I have another experience to tuck away in my testimony garden.

While I lived with my husband and two little boys in San Diego, California, I had the marvelous opportunity to visit the temple weekly. One time, as I was participating in temple ordinances on behalf of a deceased sister, I felt as if I were experiencing the ordinances for the first time. I sat with eyes wide open, soaking up everything I learned. My soul truly thirsted for everything being taught. It was breathtaking to think about the blessings promised to this sister and her posterity through the temple ordinance. The feelings of joy and gratitude that I had are almost impossible to describe. I wept openly. I wanted to shout for joy and hug everyone I saw!
As I returned to the dressing room, I hugged a surprised temple worker and told her of my feelings. I was surprised how literally I had been an instrument in bringing eternal truths to someone who had passed on.Ritva Hokkanen, Finland

When I was sixteen years old I remember returning home early one evening from a social activity, very much awake and not ready to go to bed. I thought of going outside to bounce the basketball but knew that the neighbors would not appreciate this activity, as they probably were in bed. I also thought I might play some music on my phonograph but knew my parents would object to this as their bedroom was below mine!
Lying on my bed stand was a copy of the Book of Mormon that my mother always placed there in the hope that I would read it. At that time, I had read in the Book of Mormon but had not really read the Book of Mormon. Indeed, the only phrase I certainly remembered from the book was, "I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents." That evening, having not much motive beyond having nothing better to do, I began to read the Book of Mormon.
The next morning at 11:00 a.m., being Saturday, my parents thought I was sleeping in as I did not have to be at work until that afternoon. I was, however, very much awake. I was reading the concluding words of Moroni, "Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourself of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourself of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you..." (Moroni 10:32). After having read the concluding invitation and farewell from Moroni, I knelt by my bed and put to the test the promise he made earlier: "And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost" (Moroni 10:4).
That Saturday morning, I asked for the witness of the Holy Ghost, and I received it more clearly and powerfully than any experimental conclusion or rational deduction that I have ever made. It became the foundation from which the most important convictions arose.
The following Monday morning at school, I met a good friend, not a member of the Church, with whom I had many discussions about the gospel. He said to me that he had a list of 50 anachronisms in the Book of Mormon that demonstrated that the Book of Mormon is not based upon an ancient text but was a nineteenth-century invention. (An anachronism refers to a person or event or thing that is chronologically out of place, a bit like saying that Julius Caesar drove his SUV into Rome.)
Well, I told my friend that he was too late, for I had a certain witness of the Book of Mormon! But, I said to him, "Give me your list and I will keep it." I did keep that list and over the years, and as more research and study were done by various analysts and academics, one item after the other dropped off the list. Finally, a few years ago, I was speaking to a group at Cornell University and mentioned my list and noted that after these many years only one item remained - but I could wait. After my presentation, a distinguished professor came up to me and said, "Well, you can remove your last item, for our studies indicate that it is not an anachronism."
Think for a minute what my life would have been like had I withheld my conviction of the Book of Mormon until I had resolved all the questions that my friend had given me. I have often said that, when it comes to the most fundamental truths, I have no doubts, although I may have some questions! There are some things for which we must have a certitude that transcends our incomplete understanding and immediate questions. Moroni pointed the way to receive real knowledge both of the most fundamental questions and the most sublime truths.

Recently some friends shared an interesting account that transpired years ago at the Air Force Academy. William “Bill” Crawford, known to the cadets in the squadron he served as Mr. Crawford the janitor, was barely recognized or acknowledged, and he did nothing to draw attention to himself or to promote himself with the students. He did his job exceedingly well, and apparently no one paid much attention to him or to his service to the academy and to future Air Force officers.

Mr. Crawford’s personal appearance was not particularly impressive, and he demonstrated with his gray hair, his wrinkled face, and his slightly shuffling gait nothing of greatness that was readily apparent to the students. He was polite but apparently shy. He typically did not speak to the young cadets unless they spoke first, which they rarely did. He just seemed, as reported by one of the cadets, to “[blend] into the woodwork.”

All of that changed in the fall of 1976 when one of the students was reading a book about World War II and the infantry campaign in Italy. Let me turn to the words of then student and later Air Force Colonel James Moschgat:
On Sept. 13, 1943, a Private William Crawford from Colorado, assigned to the 36th Infantry Division, had been involved in some bloody fighting on Hill 424 near Altavilla, Italy. . . .

. . . “In the face of intense and overwhelming hostile fire . . . with no regard for personal safety . . . on his own initiative, Private Crawford single-handedly attacked fortified enemy positions.” It continued, “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty, the President of the United States . . .”

Cadet Moschgat said to his roommate, “You’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor is a Medal of Honor winner.”

The following Monday morning, the cadets couldn’t wait to ask Bill, the janitor, about the story. As they met him, they showed him the page in question. He looked at it quietly for a time and then said, “Yep, that’s me.”

They then asked him why he had not ever told them about his experiences and his medal. He just humbly responded, “That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.”

The students had to leave for class, but, for them and for Mr. Crawford, things were never the same again. Quickly the word spread throughout the academy that they had a hero among them and that their janitor had won the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Let me return to Colonel Moschgat’s account:
Cadets who had once passed by Bill with hardly a glance, now greeted him with a smile and a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Crawford.” Those who had before left a mess for the “janitor” to clean up started taking it upon themselves to put things in order. Most cadets routinely stopped to talk to Bill throughout the day, and we even began inviting him to our formal squadron functions. He’d show up dressed in a conservative dark suit and quietly talk to those who approached him, the only sign of his heroics being a simple blue, star-spangled lapel pin. Almost overnight, Bill went from being a simple fixture in our squadron to one of our teammates.

I was with members of the Church in Latin America the last two weekends. There I met tithe payers, full-tithe payers, who struggle for economic survival. One great leader, a medical doctor, lost his employment for months. To feed his family, he turned to the manual work he had done to put himself through medical school. He had borrowed to get food. The loan was coming due, and he saw no way to pay it. And yet through it all, week by week, he paid tithing on his tiny earnings. He did not ask me for money but asked that I would pray for him. His only concern was that God would help him to keep his covenants.

Johnny slowed his bike before turning into Mrs. Jones’s driveway. It was the day before Easter, and it was time for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt.
“I knew it,” he thought. “There’s Randy Mills. He’ll get the prize. He always does. I’ll have to listen to him brag for another year.”
“Hey, come on, slowpoke!” Randy yelled.
“I’m coming.”
Randy laughed. “Why are you frowning? Afraid you’ll get beat again?”
“Come line up, children,” Mrs. Jones called. “When I say, ‘Go,’ the smaller children will run to the backyard. When I say it again, the older children will follow.”
A few minutes into the hunt, Randy ran up to Johnny. “How many eggs have you found?”
“Nine.”
“Me too. Maybe we’ll tie for the prize.” He ran off to find more.
Johnny poked about here and there. He sure hoped to find another egg and beat Randy. He was looking under an already-searched bush when he heard a small sniff. A little girl was standing behind the bush crying. It was Laurie, Johnny’s neighbor.
“Hi, Laurie. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t have any eggs!” Laurie sobbed. “If I could find just one egg …” Laurie was much younger than most of the children, and she was crying as if her heart would break.
“Children, I believe all the eggs have been found. Let’s count up,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Now I’ll never find one.” Tears ran down Laurie’s face.
Johnny felt very bad for the little girl. As he looked at his full basket, an idea hit him. He quickly slipped his prettiest egg under the bush. “Laurie, did you look really well under here?”
“I think so.” She came around to his side of the bush, her eyes searching everywhere. Suddenly her face lit up. “Ooooh! Look at the pretty egg!”
Randy walked up and pounded Johnny on the back. “Well, we tied for first prize with nine eggs apiece.”
“I only have eight,” Johnny said quietly.
“I thought you said you had nine.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Wow! The prize is mine. Say, you’d better learn to count better, Johnny.” He laughed over his shoulder.
Johnny watched Randy claim the prize. He would have to listen to Randy brag for another year, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He smiled, remembering Laurie’s face as she found just one egg.

After crying for a few minutes, Thomas began to get frightened. He’d never been at home by himself before. He tried to think about another time when he’d felt frightened and about what he’d done then. A few nights earlier he had had a scary dream. When his mother came into his bedroom to comfort him, she had helped him offer a prayer to Heavenly Father. “You can ask Heavenly Father to give you a feeling of peace any time you are frightened,” she had told him.
He knelt down now by the couch and wiped the tears from his eyes. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he began, “I’m sorry I didn’t put on my shoes and socks when I was told to. Please help Dad come back to get me, and help me to not be afraid. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
He still felt a little nervous as he sat on the couch and looked around the living room. Then he saw the photograph on the piano. He quickly climbed onto the piano bench and picked up the photograph. He sat on the couch and studied it carefully. Then he hugged it close to him. Peace filled his heart.
A few minutes later he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He knelt on the couch and looked out the big window. It was Dad! His father ran up the steps, unlocked the door, and called out, “Thomas? Where are you, Buddy!”
“I’m right here, Dad.”
“I’m so sorry we left you!” Dad gave him a big hug. “Were you scared?”
“At first,” Thomas admitted. “Then I said a prayer. And then I saw this.” He showed Dad the picture of the family dressed in white, standing in front of the Logan Temple. “I remembered that our family is forever, so I knew you’d be back for me.”
“You weren’t the only one praying, Son,” Dad said with tears in his eyes. “I had a prayer in my heart that Heavenly Father would comfort you until I could get home. And now I see how He did.”
“You put the picture back, and I’ll put on my shoes,” Thomas suggested. “Then we can go to church together.”
“Together forever,” Dad said with a wink.

David chuckled at them and rolled over onto his back, remembering how it was when he was only five and his mother was teaching him to swim. He had clung to her, scared but excited, until she finally went under the water and he went under with her, holding his breath for the first time. When they came up, he was laughing so hard that he couldn’t stop.
“What’s so funny?” she’d demanded. “You—your hair was going straight up!” It was the first of many days spent at the pond, giggling and splashing and laughing.

“Please, somebody, open the door,” Jeff called.
Mother placed a casserole in the microwave, turned on the timer, then hurried to the back door and opened it. “You’re late,” she said.
Jeff came into the kitchen and set down a big brass horn.
Father turned from rinsing salad greens in the sink. “What,” he asked, “is that?”
“It’s a sousaphone,” Jeff said proudly.
“What’s a sousaphone?” His little brother, Ben, looked up from setting the table. “Wow!” he said, staring at the enormous horn.
“It’s like a tuba, only its bell is turned so that you can carry it in the marching band.” Jeff wriggled into the center of the circular tubing and let the horn with its flaring brass bell rest on his left shoulder. “Like this, see?”
“I see,” his mother said. “But what about your trumpet? I thought that you were going to play trumpet in the school orchestra again this year.”
“What I really want to do is play in the marching band,” Jeff explained. “But they have too many trumpets already. So Mr. Gunderson said that he could teach me to play the sousaphone. He’s been looking for someone to play it.”
“And he found you,” Father said, putting the salad greens to drain. “Isn’t that a lot of horn for a boy?”
Jeff drew himself up straight and shifted the sousaphone carefully. “Mr. Gunderson says that I have good posture and the best breath control in the brass section. That’s what’s important.”
“Blow on it!” Ben shouted, dancing around Jeff and the big horn. “Blow on it!”
Jeff put the large mouthpiece to his lips and blew—baroomph! braphoom!
“I’ll need to practice,” Jeff said quickly. “Mr. Gunderson is going to give me lessons every week.”
The microwave pinged, and Mother took out the casserole. Father tossed the salad while Jeff washed up for dinner.
Afterward, while Ben and Father watched TV, Jeff helped Mother with the dishes. “Do you really want to play the sousaphone?” she asked.
“Oh yes!”
“You realize that you’ll need to practice a lot, just as you had to when you learned to play the trumpet?”
“I know. Mr. Gunderson thinks that I should be good enough to march with the band in the Thanksgiving Day parade.”
“In just three months?”
“They’ll be simple pieces, Mom. Mr. Gunderson is going to make some of the sousaphone parts simpler this year. And by next year …”
“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Jeff?”
“Oh yes, Mom!”
Mother put her hand on his shoulder and smiled, “Well, then, you work hard at it, Jeff.”
And Jeff did. Mr. Gunderson gave him a private lesson once a week, and he practiced at least half an hour every day. He learned to hold the big mouthpiece correctly against his lips to get a proper tone. He was careful not to puff his cheeks out too much when he blew into the instrument. It didn’t take as much breath as he had thought it would, only about as much as when he blew up a balloon.
“Why do they call it a sousaphone?” Ben asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the family room while Jeff practiced.
“It’s named after John Philip Sousa. He was a famous bandleader and composer. They call him the ‘March King.’ He’s the one who wrote ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’”
“Oh, I love ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ Can you play that?”
“Not yet.” Jeff took a deep breath and went back to his practicing.
“Jeff wants to play the sousaphone in the worst way,” Father joked to Mother, coming in from the garden. “And that’s the way it sounds.”
“Now, John,” Mother said, “remember those first weeks with the trumpet?”
“I remember,” Father said. “And I’m sure that he’ll soon be as good on the sousaphone as he became on the trumpet.”
Jeff polished the sousaphone carefully with cheesecloth, making the coiled tubing and the flaring bell shine. It’s the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen, he thought.
By the end of October he had learned how to press the valves just right. He had learned how to move his lips and control his breathing for a steady supply of air.
“You’ve made real progress, Jeff,” Mr. Gunderson told him.
“You’re beginning to sound a lot better,” his father said.
“I’m proud of you,” Mother said and smiled.
“Will you be in the Thanksgiving Day parade?” Ben asked.
“I sure hope so!” Jeff replied.
The band began to practice for the parade the first week in November. It wasn’t hard to do the marching part, but making the square turns with the big instrument on his shoulder was a bit tricky to learn. Jeff didn’t have to play anything really difficult—just some deep, satisfying bass notes to mark the beat of the tunes.
At last it was Thanksgiving Day. Jeff’s family drove him to where the parade was to begin. His mother kissed him. Father clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Good luck, Son.” Ben yelled, “I’ll wave to you, Jeff!”
The band marched along Main Street, sounding loud and clear. Soon they reached the reviewing stand, where the mayor and other officials watched. Jeff carried himself proudly in his red and blue uniform with its white trim and with the big sousaphone resting on his shoulder.
“Hey, Jeff! Jeff!” Ben was jumping up and down and waving. “That’s my brother!” he told everyone.
“Way to go, Son!” Father called.
Mother smiled and waved.
Jeff tilted the bell of his sousaphone toward them ever so slightly and made a little bow. Then he marched on, blowing strong, true tones: Oompah! Oompah!

I shouted for joy. My whole high school must have heard. Other students stared at me, wondering what had made me shout, but I could not contain my delight when I saw my name on the list of students admitted to the Philippines’ premier university. I truly felt blessed.

When people learned that I would be attending the university, they looked at me in awe. In moments of reflection, I couldn’t help smiling. My future was set. I was very grateful to the Lord for helping me succeed in the qualifying examinations.

“Heavenly Father, I can’t go on a mission right now. There is so much for me here. Let me continue my studies. After I get my degree, I will go and proclaim Thy gospel.

“I need to continue studying, Father. I need this for my future.

“Thou knowest that I have tried to persuade the department head to grant me a leave of absence for two years. She would not allow it. She told me I had to apply for an honorable dismissal from the university if I choose to go.

“Heavenly Father, I can’t go on a mission right now. I need this for my future.”

My heart was heavy as I approached the office door of the college secretary. He would tell me that I was out of my mind, that I would be sacrificing a promising future. How could I explain to him that the Lord had called me?

“I am here to see the college secretary.”

“It is about applying for an honorable dismissal.”

“No, I am in good academic standing.”

“No, I have not been involved in any criminal offense.”

“The reason? I have received a call from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. I need to give up my studies at the university to serve the Lord.”

“No, the mission cannot be postponed, and I will serve for two years.”

“I know that means I cannot return.”

“What? I can apply for a leave of absence? My department head said that I had to leave the university because a leave of absence can be granted for only one year.”

“The university policy was recently changed? She must not have known that, nor did I.”

“Thank you very much.”

After I served in the Philippines Ilagan Mission from 2000 to 2002, I resumed my studies at the University of the Philippines in Quezon City and then transferred to Brigham Young University–Hawaii. I look forward to marrying and raising a family in the gospel.

The twenty-third of December is an important birth date to remember, for it was on that day in 1805 that the Prophet Joseph Smith was born.
The Prophet loved children and they loved him. He would often go out of his way to speak to a child. One boy recalled that when families drove from their farms into Kirtland to attend church meetings, the Prophet would go from wagon to wagon, seeking out the children to whom he gave special greetings.
They called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. As the children rose from their knees, one of them said, “Now I know Brother Joseph will be safe.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night. He told them that they could go to their own homes, for he knew that prayers of children are heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!
Here is what some of the children who knew and loved Brother Joseph wrote about him:
The Prophet Joseph Smith was our neighbor. We lived next to him on the corner of Main and Parley streets. He came to our house quite often for short visits.
One day my older brother, Wallace, and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming toward us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tearstained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.
Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.
One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.