Gospel Story Finder

Plan surprise activities. If Dad comes home from work tired and worn out, falls into his chair, and doesn’t get up until dinner, we know it’s time to plan another surprise activity. We love to kidnap Dad when he leaves from work or steps out of the car at home and take him on a family outing. Our activity might be as simple as going to a park for a picnic dinner. Sometimes we make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, throw in a bag of chips, kidnap Dad, and drive to a local point of interest. Even though they aren’t elaborate, our activities are always fun and spontaneous—and Dad loves being the center of everyone’s kidnapping scheme.

One day, just after it had rained in beautiful Nauvoo, Margarette McIntire and her older brother Wallace were walking to school.
Hurry up, Wallace, or we’ll be late.
I’m coming.
My boots are stuck, Margarette!
Mine are too. There’s too much mud.
The children found they couldn’t get out, so they started to cry, thinking they would have to stay there.
What’s this?
Brother Joseph!
We’re stuck.
Joseph pulled the two children out of the mud.
He cleaned the mud off their boots.
You look very pretty today, Margarette. Don’t worry about the mud—it will come off.
He dried their tears.
Cheer up, young man. You’re a very good older brother. Keep taking good care of your sister.
Margarette later recalled the experience: “Was it any wonder that I loved that great, good, and noble man of God?”
Off to school, now.
Thank you, Brother Joseph.
Good-bye!

One thing I have learned is that motherhood entails difficult decisions. When our first child was born, I had been working for about twelve years, first as a teacher and later as a lawyer. I wondered whether to continue working. My husband’s income was sufficient to meet our needs, but we were about twenty years older than most new parents. I wondered whether we would both survive to raise our children and, if I were widowed, how I would provide for them. I wondered how difficult it would be to find a job at the age of sixty should a need arise as our children entered college or received mission calls.
President Kimball, who was then the prophet, had counseled the sisters of the Church: “Some women, because of circumstances beyond their control, must work. We understand that. … Do not, however, make the mistake of being drawn off into secondary tasks which will cause the neglect of your eternal assignments such as giving birth to and rearing the spirit children of our Father in Heaven. Pray carefully over all your decisions” (Spencer W. Kimball, Ensign, Nov. 1979, p. 103; see also My Beloved Sisters, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1979, p. 41).
I took this counsel seriously. I knew that I had to decide whether I was among those who must work. After praying earnestly about the matter, I sought a priesthood blessing from my husband. The blessing promised that I would be able to make a decision that would be good for our family but did not indicate what the decision should be. I tried to foresee the effect my decision would have on my husband, my children, and me and to listen for inspiration. My choice was to become a full-time homemaker.
I have not regretted that decision. I have loved being home with the children, watching them grow, and helping them learn. But I remain aware that a time may come when I must provide for my family. Having tried to make a wise decision and to do those things I can to maintain employable skills, I feel I must and can trust the Lord to help me should such a need arise.

A few weeks after my baptism at age 30, the president of our branch in Piura, Peru, asked to interview me to determine my worthiness to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. After I sat down, President Jorge García offered a prayer. Then he asked me, “Do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you keep the Word of Wisdom?”
“Yes,” I replied again.
“Are you chaste?”
“Yes.”
To this point I had been confident in my answers, but then came the next question: “Do you pay a full tithe?”
I was speechless. In my mind I could see the illustration the missionaries had shown me when they taught the discussion on tithing. They had said that one-tenth of our income belongs to the Lord. Then I heard another question: “Didn’t the missionaries teach you the law of tithing?”
“They did teach me,” I replied, “but I just don’t pay it.”
“I’m sorry,” President García said after a moment, “but you will have to pay your tithing in order to receive the priesthood. Start now, and pay the Lord your tithing.”
I left his office in a thoughtful mood. After reviewing the law of tithing later that day, I entered my room, knelt on the floor, and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, if I have robbed Thee by not paying my tithing, I ask Thee to forgive me. I promise I will never again fail to pay it.”
The following Sunday at church I asked the branch president for another interview. I told him I felt that the Lord had forgiven me and that He had accepted my commitment to pay tithing, which I began doing that very Sunday. “Am I worthy to receive the priesthood?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Today I will confer the Aaronic Priesthood upon you and ordain you to the office of deacon.”
Today I have a powerful testimony of tithing and the abundant blessings that come from paying it. In countless interviews since that Sunday more than 35 years ago, whenever my leaders have asked me if I pay a full tithe, I have been happy to answer yes!

Mike was the youngest and the littlest in his family.
He was too young to go to school with his brother and sister. He was too little to play basketball with them.
Mike couldn’t eat as fast as the rest of his family, so sometimes the dessert would be all gone by the time he was ready for seconds.
He still couldn’t tie his shoelaces so that they stayed tied.
Sometimes he couldn’t reach the toy he wanted in the toy cabinet. And the cookie jar was completely out of his reach.
Mike couldn’t ride a bike yet—he was still riding his tricycle. And he wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone.
He was too small to climb the tree that grew behind the house—he couldn’t reach even the lowest branch.
Mike couldn’t stay up as late as his brother or his sister, either—they were allowed to stay up a whole hour longer!
Sometimes it was very hard to be the youngest and the littlest.
But there were times when being the youngest and the littlest could be nice.
When Grandma came to visit, Mike was the only one little enough to sit on her lap.
Sometimes when his brother and sister were in school, Mike and his mother went shopping together. The lady in the bakery would often give him a big cookie. And after lunch his mother would have time to read a story to him. They would laugh together at the pictures in the storybook. That was fun!
Some days his sister would give Mike a ride in his red wagon. He was the only one little enough to fit into it.
Mike was small enough that he could turn cartwheels right in the family room. His brother and sister were not allowed to do that.
When Mike and Daddy went for walks, Daddy would give him a piggyback ride home. Pretty soon he would be too big for that, Daddy said, but now he was just the right size.
One day something happened that made Mike very happy that he was little.
The whole family had been shopping together. When they got home, no one had a house key.
“How can we get in?” they asked each other.
“I know,” said Mother. “That small window is open. If we boost Mike up to the window, he can climb through it and open the door from the inside.”
Daddy boosted Mike up to the small window. He wriggled through it, then ran to open the front door. His mother, father, brother, and sister came in.
“You’re our hero, Mike,” they all said. “You rescued us!”
Mike grinned. Sometimes being the youngest and the littlest was a very good thing.

The first time we took our three-year-old daughter to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, she showed me what it means to come unto Christ. As we were going up the ramp in the North Visitors’ Center, she looked up and saw the statue of Jesus. She let go of my hand, looked into my face, and with an expression of unutterable love and eagerness said, “Oh, Daddy! It’s Jesus!” She then ran as fast as she could to meet him.

The Prophet Joseph Smith exemplified kindness in his life to everyone, old and young. One child who benefited from the Prophet’s kindness remembered:
“My older brother and I were going to school, near to the building which was known as Joseph’s brick store. It had been raining the previous day, causing the ground to be very muddy, especially along that street. My brother Wallace and I both got [our feet] in the mud, and could not get out, and of course, child-like, we began to cry, for we thought we would have to stay there. But looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming to 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 tear-stained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us, and sent us on our way to school rejoicing.”

I knelt with my own family, at the conclusion of a great family home evening, the night before our lovely daughter was to be married in the temple. I think she wouldn’t mind my telling you that after we had laughed and wept and remembered, she was asked to pray. I don’t recall much of her prayer, the tears and the joy and the sweetness, but I remember one thought: she thanked God for the unconditional love she had received. This life doesn’t give one very many chances to feel exultant and a little successful, but I felt wonderful that night, and thank God that she really believes and understands what she said. We cannot, my dear brethren, condition our love by a beard or beads or habits or strange viewpoints. There have to be standards and they must be enforced, but our love must be unconditional.

It is therapeutic to step back from the details of life and reacquaint ourselves with the big picture. A few years ago our family was vacationing at Colter Bay in Grand Teton National Park. One beautiful, clear night we were walking down a trail that led to Jackson Lake. I happened to look up at the sky and was overwhelmed at the clarity of the stars and the magnitude of the universe. I wondered how long it had been since I had stared at the sky and let the grandeur of eternity and the glory of God’s creations wash over me. It had been too long, and therefore I repented and soaked it in. Later that year I was reading some excerpts from John A. Widtsoe’s A Rational Theology, which brought back some feelings of that night:

Robert Willmore, an assistant to the president of the priests quorum in Hibbard, Idaho, was working outside the valley when he learned of the disaster. He immediately returned home. “I was told our house had been completely submerged, but when I got home I found it wasn’t even touched.” He stayed to help clean the homes of ward members who were in the path of the flood.
One of the first wards to organize their cleanup efforts was at Hibbard, about six miles northwest of Rexburg. Aaronic Priesthood-age youths, including Robert Willmore, were organized into teams and were sent into the homes of the elderly to help them with the tedious task of cleaning the homes and repairing the damage caused by the water.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to try to read a restaurant menu when you’re blind? How about going through a buffet line in a wheelchair? Joel Williams of the Carrollwood Second Ward did, and decided to do something about it for his Eagle Scout project.
He arranged a special day when teams would visit restaurants in the Tampa, Florida, area, and use a checklist to see how disability-friendly they were. He’d already gotten permission from the participating restaurant managers, of course.
Before the teams went out, however, he set up an “Insight Cafe” in the meetinghouse and assigned each team member a disability with which they would attempt to enjoy a restaurant meal.
When the project was complete, Joel compiled a “Guide to Dining Accessibility,” which is available to the public. It lists restaurants and the handicaps they can accommodate. This was one Eagle project that not only helped the community, but gave tremendous insight to those who participated.

I remember very well sitting in a seminar on biblical studies at an eastern university many years ago. One of the things that stands out in my mind is our discussion of the canon of scripture. For at least two hours the instructor had emphasized that the word canon—referring, of course, to the biblical books that are generally included in the Judeo-Christian collection—was the “rule of faith,” the standard against which we measure what is acceptable in belief and practice. He also stated that the canon, if the word meant anything at all, was closed, fixed, set, and established. He must have stressed those words at least 10 times as he wrote them on the blackboard over and over.

I noticed in the second session on this topic that the instructor seemed a bit uneasy. I remember thinking that something must be wrong. Without warning, he stopped what he was doing, banged his fist on the table, turned to me, and said: “Mr. Millet, will you please explain to this group the Latter-day Saint concept of canon, given your people’s acceptance of the Book of Mormon and other books of scripture beyond the Bible?”

I was startled. Stunned. Certainly surprised. I paused for several seconds, looked up at the blackboard, saw the now very familiar words under the word canon,and said, somewhat shyly, “Well, I suppose you could say that the Latter-day Saints believe the canon of scripture is open, flexible, and expanding.” We then had a really fascinating discussion!

When I was 20, the missionaries baptized my girlfriend and her family. The missionaries taught me too. After I read the Book of Mormon, I received a testimony and was baptized. When I was 23, my girlfriend, Walkyria, and I were married. Several years later, we traveled to the Los Angeles California Temple to be sealed together. We couldn’t afford to take our children with us, so they were sealed to us when the first temple in Brazil, the São Paulo temple, opened.

I have an uncle who was continually seeking to improve and increase the gifts and talents he had received from Heavenly Father. Let me share one story from his life that has helped me to see how spiritual gifts and talents are developed and magnified.
One day when my uncle Ben was at work at a copper mine, he noticed an old piece of bent metal lying by a railroad track. He asked his boss if he could have it. His boss said, “Ben, that old piece of metal is worthless. You are wasting your time to even pick it up.”
Uncle Ben smiled and said, “I see much more than an old piece of metal.”
With his boss’s permission, he took it home. In his workshop he heated the metal until it was red hot. Then he was able, with a great deal of work, to mold and bend it until it was straight.
When it cooled, he drew a large knife-shaped pattern on it. With a hot blowtorch, he cut the metal into the shape of a knife. Uncle Ben then began knocking off the rough edges, working hour after hour to cut, grind, polish, and refine that old piece of metal.
Day after day he worked on what his boss had called a worthless piece of metal. Slowly the blade began to take shape and become a beautiful, shining masterpiece.
All it lacked now was a handle. Uncle Ben went to the woods and found an elk antler. Back at his workshop he cleaned, cut, and polished the antler. When he was done, it was smooth and beautiful. Carefully he attached the handle to the knife. What was once an old, rusty, bent piece of metal became a beautiful knife that won several awards.

I struggled with learning a new language in my first area on mission, but one of the single adults, the branch mission leader at the time, was so instrumental in helping us bring the gospel to the doorstep of the townspeople. I won’t forget how he helped us with lesson translations and formed almost instant friendships with our investigators, helping them see and feel, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that they were taking the right step into the Lord’s Church.

In 2017, my goal for visiting Wales was to discover Margaret Rowland, the sister of Job Rowland, my great-great grandfather who immigrated to the United States in 1849. I had records that indicated that her husband, Morgan Thomas, had been buried in Pant Cemetery in Merthyr Tydfil, but nothing about her, and I was determined to suss out her information.
In March of 2017, my friend Sandra, my two brothers and their wives and I set out on a journey that would take us across the south of England, through Scotland and straight into our family’s history in Wales.
The day we arrived in Merthyr Tydfil, we went to the local history centre and spent a couple of confusing hours trying to decide how to begin our search. At a loss, we decided to pick up a few pamphlets and go to the Pant Cemetery where we were sure we could find the grave of Morgan Thomas, Margaret Rowland’s husband, or at least find someone who could guide us to the grave.
When we arrived, we were stunned, having been used to our western American cemeteries of limited size. Pant was huge! Hill upon hill of ancient gravestones in every conceivable state of disrepair. We all stood in disbelief as we stared at the task before us. We ultimately decided just to walk around a bit as we prayed to be guided in the right direction. After about 30 minutes of wandering, we met and determined that this would be a hopeless endeavor and somewhat discouraged, we left for dinner.
The next morning, we went to the Engine House (a genealogical repository and information center) in Merthyr to begin our research. It is there where the miracles began as we entered the Engine House and met miracle number one, Terry Jones.
My brothers Richard and Joe, Joe’s wife, Eileen, and I were downstairs learning about the history of the iron industry in the town when Richard’s wife, Sharon, and my friend Sandy went upstairs to wander and look for restrooms. There, they encountered a gentleman working on a computer and began a conversation with him about our quest. When they mentioned trying to find one grave amongst the 10,000 in Pant Cemetery he realized that we really did need some help. He introduced himself as Terry Jones and arranged for us to meet him at the cemetery office across the street where he introduced us to Deb, the keeper of records. Here we not only found Margaret’s grave site number, but others who were related and resided next to her. We were able to arrange with Deb’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, to meet later that day to see the graves.
Miracle number two occurred when we returned to the cemetery and realized that all six of us had previously stood very near the actual site of the graves at some point as we wandered the cemetery. The reason we didn’t see the graves was they were covered entirely by a huge tree that had completely swallowed them. We had previously photographed the tree because it was so immense and imposing, but for no other reason.
We returned later to cut away some of the lower branches so that Sharon could crawl inside and read the writing on the headstones, and we discovered that we had many more relatives buried in this plot than we realized.
Miracle number three came with a visit to the Colly Isaf farm upon which Margaret and Morgan Thomas farmed. It is no longer in the Thomas family, but the current owners allowed us to visit and to photograph the place where our family lived. We discovered the name of the farm listed on the back of a photograph found in material one of our aunts had given us.
Miracle number four occurred throughout the following year as Terry continued to do research for our family and discovered many more links in the family chain, but culminated with a discovery of John Thomas, a direct descendant of Margaret Rowland and Morgan Thomas.
John currently lives on Penrhiw farm which has been in the family since 1724 and he and his wife, Celia, were willing to meet with us. He sent us a lineage chart of all the siblings of Job who remained in Wales, adding much needed information to connect our family to those who had died. This discovery came about through another miracle, number five, that of Terry meeting Father Powell at St. Catwg’s Episcopal Church. While looking for Edward Rowland and Ann Miles, he mentioned John as a possible Thomas still living on the farm.
Miracle number six, cheap tickets to Wales even though it was at the time of the royal wedding. The window for these tickets was short, and directly after we booked them the price doubled.
Miracle number seven again involved Terry Jones who had looked for one year for the marriage of Edward Rowland and Ann Miles (Job and Margaret’s grandparents). Three weeks before we returned to Merthyr in 2018, he found it.
When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.
The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.
Miracle number ten: We discovered that we were not in charge in other ways as we went to Terry’s home for juice and to collect a book of remembrance that he had found when cleaning out the Engine House. He had asked Richard and Sharon to take the book of remembrance back to Logan where they live to find its owner. He showed Sharon this photo of a family reunion taken in 2004 (he had been doing research for the person who sent it to him), and she recognized someone. She immediately texted that person, and as a result, the connection was made between the photo and the owner of the book of remembrance.
There were more miracles during our visit that involved finding graves that were hidden in cemeteries, discovering writing on tombstones that were covered in lichen and moss, and potentially uncovering ancestors of whom we had no knowledge. If you ever doubt that the veil is thin or that there are others across that veil who wish their work done, let these experiences prove to you that you can be an instrument in their hands. If you allow yourself to be open to the impressions, the promptings, or urgings, as a member of this Church or not, the work of Elijah can be accomplished. Please always live so that you can be a vehicle in the work of redeeming your dead; so that when you meet them, they will encircle you with their joy and gratitude.

One of our daughters, after giving birth to a baby, became seriously ill. We prayed for her, administered to her, and supported her as best we could. We hoped she would receive a blessing of healing, but days turned into months, and months turned into years. At one point I told her that this affliction might be something she would have to struggle with the rest of her life.
One morning I remember pulling out a small card and threading it through my typewriter. Among the words that I typed for her were these: “The simple secret is this: put your trust in the Lord, do your best, then leave the rest to Him.”
She did put her trust in God. But her affliction did not disappear. For years she suffered, but in due course, the Lord blessed her, and eventually she returned to health.
Knowing this daughter, I believe that even if she had never found relief, yet she would have trusted in her Heavenly Father and “[left] the rest to Him.”

“The orphans are going to like all this stuff,” John said as he loaded the last box. The back of the panel truck was filled with presents and bags of food gathered by his Scout troop. He found room for a big bag of apples. “Perfect fit!”
“Boys, it’s time to go,” Dad said as he closed the back doors. “Get in.”
The truck was a bit crowded, but nobody minded—everyone was too excited about the Christmas party at the orphanage. Everyone except John.
He’d never met any orphans before, and the Korean boys, he’d been told, didn’t speak English. Meeting them made him nervous, but he didn’t say anything—after all, his dad was the troop leader. Besides, the other boys had been in the troop longer, and the party had been their idea. They thought this wasn’t just a good Christmas service project but a way of celebrating the end of the war by helping the Korean kids who had lost everything they had, including their parents.
Each boy was supposed to pick out three of his own toys to give to the orphans. Good ones, too—not old, broken ones. “Something you’d like to get as a present,” John’s dad had insisted. John tried to act as excited as the others. “I hope the boy who gets my race car likes it,” he said. “It’s my favorite.”
It wasn’t quite true, but no way was he going to give away his best stuff! Dad’s transfer was only going to be for a few months, and John hadn’t been able to bring all his things, anyway.
He’d had a hard time deciding what he could part with—certainly not his favorite race car, the one with the rip-cord starter and huge, knobby tires that went vroom-vroom when it zipped across the floor! So he’d picked another one. It was almost as good but didn’t go as fast. The teddy bear and wooden puzzle he gave up weren’t favorite things, either.
John sighed now and stared out the window. They’d been driving for miles through the Korean countryside. Gray slushy snow lined the road. The farm fields were a patchwork of dirty snow and brown mud. As the truck made its way to the top of the narrow, winding road to the orphanage, John got his first look at it. What an ugly place! he thought. As soon as his dad parked the truck, the boys scrambled out and began unloading the gifts.
All except John, who was too busy looking around. At the end of the yard was a long shed. Its roof was nothing but scraps of rusty sheet metal. The plywood walls weren’t even painted. Scrawny chickens pecked around in the straw, and equally scrawny goats wandered in and out the open door. Just inside the door, he could see rabbit cages. Hiding behind the cages was a skinny little kid with thick bangs cut sharply across his forehead. One of the orphans, John guessed.
The boy peeked around a cage at John but didn’t smile. John noticed that the boy wasn’t wearing a coat, just a ragged sweater. No mittens, either, nor a hat. Isn’t he freezing? John wondered. Then he glanced at the boy’s feet.
No shoes! Just rubber flip-flops and those funny-looking Korean socks. He called them “mitten socks” because they had a space between the big toe and the other toes for the flip-flop thong. He knew that they were only funny looking because he’d never seen them before, and that both they and the flip-flops (which would later be known as thongs) were practical and useful—he’d seen Korean farmers wearing the same socks with flip-flops—but he had not realized that anybody wore them in the wintertime too!
Suddenly the small boy smiled and waved a shy greeting. Then he darted away. John stood watching as silent Korean boys did their chores. Most wore coats, but only a few had mittens. One boy’s hands looked blue with cold. John turned to say something to his dad, but he and the other Scouts were heading inside the orphanage. John raced to catch up. Inside it was warmer, but not much. He decided to keep his coat on.
“Come on, boys, help me put the things out,” Dad said as he started unloading the food they’d brought—big bags of rice and beans, two huge turkeys, cookies, oranges, apples, candy canes, juice, and cupcakes with green coconut frosting.
Some of the Korean boys helped. They put the presents under a scraggly tree decorated with homemade ornaments and paper chains. On Christmas morning the orphans would open their gifts. Now they laughed and shook each present, chattering away excitedly.
John couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but he could see how they felt. He was excited about Christmas too! Maybe he should have given away his favorite race car. But there was no time to think about that—the party was starting. The other Scouts were already lining up to sing Christmas carols.
Soon the singing and games were finished, the cupcakes and cookies were eaten, and the party was over. As John headed for the door, he spotted the little boy who had smiled at him outside. The boy smiled and waved again from across the room.
John took his red mittens from his pocket and went over to him. “Here. You keep these. Merry Christmas!”
The boy looked puzzled.
“Go on, take them. They’re for you—to keep.” John held the mittens out again.
Slowly the boy reached for the mittens and slipped them on. His face split into the biggest grin that John had ever seen! He bowed his head and kept repeating something that John couldn’t understand.
“Kim Lee, Kim Lee!” the boy then said, pointing at his chest.
“Oh, I get it,” John cried. “Your name is Kim Lee!” He pointed at his own chest. “John Morris.”
The boy nodded, said, “John Morris,” then repeated those same strange-sounding words.
This time John knew what they meant: thank you. He wished that he could stay longer, but it was time to go. As they headed down the gravel driveway, John turned to see red-mittened hands waving from the barnyard gate. “Merry Christmas, Kim Lee,” John whispered.
All the boys were quiet on the way back. John broke the silence. “Dad, those boys at the orphanage will like the toys and other stuff, but they really need some warm clothes.”
“You’re right—they do,” Dad agreed.
“Do you think we could buy a bunch of mittens and hats and stuff like that and take it out there? In time for Christmas?”
“I think that’s a great idea. What do the rest of you think?”
The boys eagerly agreed: “Let’s buy them some warm socks.” “Maybe we could get them some snow boots too. I’d sure hate to walk around in the snow in flip-flops!” “Me too! Let’s get mittens and socks and hats and boots.” “My dad and mom will help us.” “Mine too.” “And mine.”
As he and Dad went home after dropping the other boys off, John was happy about the Scouts’ new plans. He was even happier as he got out his race car with the rip-cord starter and huge, knobby tires and covered it with Christmas wrapping paper.

I have found that it is true in Church assignments. I knew in 1945, two months before I was called, that I would be a member of the First Council of the Seventy. I can remember my feeling at the time. I was standing near the grave of my mission president, who was a member of that council, paying my respects to his family, and it came to me that I would succeed him. I gave my head a shake and said to myself, “Don’t be a fool. No such thing can happen.” I fought it, but it didn’t do me any good to fight it because the more I fought it the more strongly the impression came. On the day it occurred I could have told you the exact language which would be used in the call, and it proved to be so.

Because joining the Church in Spain requires much sacrifice in breaking from established tradition, as it does in some other parts of the world, members in Spain are all the more dedicated. After Manuel and María Trancosco were visited by two missionaries in 1976, Manuel prayed about their message and studied the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. When a spiritual confirmation came to him while at his job as a mechanic, he ran home to ask the elders to baptize him immediately.

Since the family’s conversion, Manuel has devoted himself to serving in many different callings, despite a work schedule that starts at six in the morning and ends at ten at night. The family also had enough faith to drive their tiny car to the Swiss Temple, some 1,200 kilometers to the north. Their testimonies were strengthened as they traveled, for each time they stopped to ask directions, they found someone who spoke Spanish. Manuel and María were sealed to their four children and have now added four more to their eternal family.