Gospel Story Finder

I can vividly recall a sunny Sunday afternoon in July 1959 when Pamela and I were walking and talking together. I was contemplating becoming a member of the Church through the ordinance of baptism. Pamela said, “I can’t remember the missionaries teaching you about tithing.”
“What is this tithing?” I asked.
Pamela responded that members give 10 percent of their income in obedience to God’s law and as an expression of their gratitude for all that our Heavenly Father has given them.
There have been a few moments in my life when I felt faint as a result of shock, and this was one of them. “Ten percent!” I echoed. “That’s impossible. There’s no way I could afford to pay tithing.”
Pamela calmly replied, “My father does. He has a wife and four children, and his income is less than yours.” She followed up by mentioning another family I had come to know in the branch, informing me that they lived on less money than I did and that there were six children in the family. This proved to be a useful challenge to me. If they could manage, I thought, then so could I.
Eleven years later, faced with a real test of my commitment to that law, I realized that through the payment of tithing great faith had developed. It was no longer simply a matter of money to me. In response to that test, I followed my faith and was blessed for it (see Mal. 3:10).

Eegik Tuchiak felt the chill of the icy Alaskan wind through his parka as the snowmobile sped across the coastal plain. Even scrunching close behind his father in the seat ahead did not cut the cold very much.
Eegik was both happy and worried. This was the first time his father had taken him to count the musk-oxen. Other times he had been too young to be around the skittish animals. Am I old enough now if something happens? he wondered.
“Hold tight!” he heard his father, Ukak, call. “We will near the herd soon.”
The grind of the motor and the whistling wind were the only sounds to be heard along the Nunivak Island snow hills, polished hard by the constant wind. The crusty white surface gave a dusky light to the short winter days.
“There they are!” Father shouted.
Gradually the engine slowed and the snowmobile slid to a stop. “We will keep the motor running, son,” Ukak said, picking up his rifle. “It will freeze if we don’t.”
Eegik hopped off the machine and peered before him. Ahead, a small musk-ox herd was bunched up against a low sea cliff. Already they were forming their defensive line—heads out, backsides together in a rough circle. With heads lowered and rows of horns facing the danger, the animals scuffed the ground nervously. Long brown fur swayed in the wind.
“They look like fur rugs,” Eegik remarked.
“Yes,” his father answered, “and the giviut (wool) makes warm sweaters. But,” he added, “they are good fighters, too, when there is no way out. See the horns curling down from the tops of their heads like stiff wigs? We will get closer. The oomingmuk (bearded ones) hide their young behind them.”
Eegik felt a deep pride in his father, who had been schooled by the government. Now he was hired by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game to keep an eye on the growing musk-ox herd, one of the hardiest animals in the world. Today he had to check on the population of the herd and count them.
Slowly and quietly the two left the machine and crawled over the snow, watching the herd skitter at the movement. One bull lowered and shook his head, taking short stamping steps forward and backward. Sensing his restlessness, the other animals jostled together and tightened the ring. Eegik could see one small head push forward, a young one anxious to do battle if necessary.
“They run swiftly,” Ukak whispered. “We must not frighten them.”
The two inched forward, sliding over the ice several yards apart, until they were within fifty yards of the herd. The lead bull, confused and frightened, danced excitedly in his position.
Suddenly, the bull gave a snort and charged forward with the speed of a much lighter animal. Ukak leaped up—his rifle flying—and tried to dodge as the animal attacked. But the musk-ox was more sure on his feet and swerved to the side, throwing Eegik’s father to the ice.
Without thinking, Eegik shouted his surprise and fell on his stomach. At the outburst, the frightened musk-oxen broke their ring, skittered excitedly, and clattered off in a wild rush.
His heart pounding, Eegik scrambled to his feet and hurried to his father, who lay sprawled on the ice.
“Father!” he cried, pushing at his parka. “Father, are you all right?”
Ukak opened his eyes and tried to rise. A shudder went through him. “My wrist … ,” he said, painfully. “I think it’s broken. Are the oomingmuk gone?”
Eegik nodded. “Can you walk, Father?” he asked.
“We should make my arm straight,” Ukak said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“But there are no sticks,” Eegik answered.
His thoughts racing, Eegik looked around, trying to find something straight and hard. But the barren arctic desert covered now by the ice held no useful object.
Then Eegik spotted the gun a few feet away. “The rifle, Father!” he cried. “We can use the rifle.”
“My son,” Ukak said, nodding, “it is a good idea.”
With his mittened hands, Eegik lifted the gun and emptied the chamber of bullets. Gently, he slid the barrel up his father’s sleeve to the elbow and wrapped the injured arm with the leather ties from his parka.
“There!” he finally said, leaning back to look at his handiwork. “That will help until we get home.”
Ukak smiled. “It is feeling better already,” he said.
With Eegik helping, the two made their way to the waiting snowmobile.
“You will have to drive,” Ukak said, holding the rifle butt with his good hand.
“I can,” the boy replied.
Eegik helped his father onto the seat, eased in front, and started off with the machine.
The journey back was slow, Eegik being careful to keep the ride as smooth as possible. Within an hour, they entered Mekoryuk and drove to their home.
At the sound of their approach, Eegik’s mother opened the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw that Eegik was in the driver’s seat.
“The oomingmuk did not like our visit,” Father answered, cradling his arm as he eased himself from the machine. “I might still be there, but for Eegik. I’m glad I took our son along.”
Eegik lifted his chin. He had wondered if he were old enough to help his father check on the skittish musk-oxen. Now he knew that he was.

Each instance of prophecy is of great interest to Latter-day Saints. Two of these can serve as examples. In 1830, the year the Church was organized, an aged patriarch named Arama Toiroa, who lived in the area of Mahia, gathered his children, grandchildren, and relatives together and gave them some advice. (At that time most of his descendants had joined the Church of England.) His people, who considered him a seer, listened carefully to what he said:
“‘My dear friends, you must leave that church, for it is not the true church of the God of heaven. The church you have joined is from the earth and not from heaven.’
“Upon hearing this his people asked, ‘Where then can we find a church where we can worship the true God?’
“Arama Toiroa answered, ‘There will come to you a true form of worship; it will be brought from the east, even from beyond the heavens. It will be brought across the great ocean and you will hear of it coming to Poneke (Wellington) and afterwards its representatives will come to Te Mahia.
“‘They will then go northward to Waiapu but will return to Te Mahia.
“‘When this “Karakia,” form of worship, is introduced amongst you, you will know it, for one shall stand and raise both hands to heaven.
“‘When you see this sign, enter into that church. Many of you will join the church and afterwards one will go from amongst you the same way that the ministers came even unto the land from afar off.’”
Fifty-four years passed before Arama’s words were fulfilled. In 1884 Elders Alma Greenwood and Ira Hinckley brought the gospel to the Wellington area and then made their way to Hawkes Bay. There they were joined by President William E. Stewart, and together they traversed the path Arama had predicted. It was at Korongata, however, and not at Mahia, that Arama’s descendants first accepted the gospel. Brother Whaanga described the day when the gospel was first preached to Arama’s people:
“In journeying northward they reached … Korongata, where many of us were assembled on the Sabbath day.
“Amongst the people who were there was a grandson of Arama Toiroa whose name was Te Teira Marutu.
“The meeting was conducted by Elder Stewart and his friends. The services were opened with singing and prayer, and a Gospel address was delivered, after which they sang again, and Brother Stewart arose to dismiss with prayer. In doing so he raised both hands and invoked God’s blessing upon the people.
“As soon as the grandson of Arama Toiroa saw this he arose and declared that this was the church of which his forefather prophesied which would surely be firmly established amongst the Maori people.
“He and his wife applied for baptism, and they and their children were thus initiated into the Church by Elder Stewart.”3
Subsequently the missionaries returned to Mahia and held meetings with other descendants of Arama Toiroa. After seeing the sign, these people said, “This is indeed the church for us, for did not our revered forefather, Arama Toiroa, prophesy about it?”
Largely as a result of this prophecy, every person in Korongata joined the Church, and a large number of Maoris in Mahia entered the waters of baptism.

David Dunn told the story of a man walking down the sidewalk past a little girl sitting on the doorstep of a house looking very dejected. He said to her, “That’s a very pretty red dress you are wearing, young lady.”
She looked up at him and smiled and said, “Oh, thank you,” and her face lit up at this compliment. Later, when he passed her house again, she brightly said, “Hello—Man!”6
He had found a friend. It is easy to find friends as we pass this way if we acquire the attributes that attract friends. Friends are some of our most priceless possessions.

These responsibilities were brought home to the girls during a multimedia presentation starring many familiar faces. Advisers had taken the time to interview some of the girls and discuss how they could pump the most from their talents.
A video clip was shown of Rebecca Duehring, a 15-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, gliding across the ice during one of her many intense ice skating competitions. Rebecca’s struggle to be a competitive skater hasn’t been easy. She was born with brain damage that limited her coordination and space perception. She could barely walk, was constantly falling, and had broken nearly every bone in her body. Then she took up ice skating, which, for some reason she can’t explain, helped her gain her coordination.
Although it takes more time and concentration for Rebecca to perfect her routines, she’s right up there with the best in town and dreams of one day going to the Olympics. “Sometimes I can feel that Heavenly Father is behind me, and I go for the top,” says Rebecca.

It was Christmas Eve, and I did not want to be out caroling.
However, my mom thought it would be fun if the family piled into our old car and drove down icy neighborhood roads to sing carols to three widows in our ward, and my dad was happy to support her suggestion.
I felt awkward. Who would want to hear us? I would die of embarrassment if I saw anyone I knew. Grumbling and sulking, I crawled into the back seat with my brother and sister.
The drive to the first apartment was only a few blocks away. Nobody answered. We drove to the second stop. Again, no answer. My spirits began to rise.
As we pulled into the narrow driveway of our last stop, I thought, “Please let no one be home.”
It was now dark outside. As my mother knocked and waited, the front porch remained dark. Good. Soon we would be home, where I could escape into my bedroom.
Suddenly the porch light snapped on and the door opened. I was so embarrassed. I felt certain we had disturbed her.
“Come in, come in,” the small, wiry woman said. She pointed to her old upright piano.
“Do you play?” she asked my mother. “Let’s sing around the piano.”
Her warmth and enthusiasm softened my heart. Maybe she didn’t mind so much that we were there. We had sung a few songs when she offered us hot chocolate.
“Can you come help?” she asked me. As we entered the kitchen, I was stunned to see a beautiful table set that was delightfully decorated for Christmas. It was so festive! At each place setting was a small, carefully wrapped package.
“Who is this for?” I asked. I knew she lived alone.
“For my neighbors,” she explained. “Every Christmas I invite those like myself—those with no family nearby—over for Christmas breakfast and a little treat.”
The idea exploded in my 13-year-old brain. Admiration filled my stubborn heart. How beautiful this room was. How beautiful this petite older sister was. How beautiful was my mother to bring us here. At last I was happy.
At church the next month this sister thanked us again for visiting. She told us we were the only ones that year who had remembered her. A few months later she passed away unexpectedly.
I look back at that Christmas and feel thankful for wonderful parents and for this older sister, each of whom wanted to bring Christmas cheer to others.
Brooke K., Utah, USA

Early in my administration, a Relief Society group from one of the BYU wards came to my office and presented me with a long scroll on which were listed the names of those who had completed the New Testament, the adult scripture reading course for that year. That Relief Society unit had determined that they would not only commit themselves to completing the Church reading assignment; they would live it and make it a part of their lives. They wept as they told me that one girl who wanted very much to participate was blind, and so each member of their Relief Society unit took a turn reading the scriptures to her so that she could participate in the project.

Another girl became ill, and so they all helped her keep up with her class assignments so that she could do that and read the scriptures as well.

They identified a second list and said so many problems came up that this group was not able to finish the scripture reading by the date they had set, but they said, “You can be assured that they will complete it and that they are living what they are learning.”

President Hinckley is concerned about everyone, especially missionaries. While I was serving as a mission president in Madrid, Spain, one of our missionaries was injured by some young men who pushed and shoved and beat him. We had to take the missionary to the hospital. President Hinckley heard what had happened and called to find out how he was doing. It was a great example to me of how concerned the prophet is about people.

Sweet though this knowledge was, the seven years between Moroni’s first visit on 21–22 September 1823 and the official organization of the Church on 6 April 1830 were a time of great testing for Joseph and Lucy. They arranged to purchase forest land in Manchester, New York; began clearing the land; built a log home, barn, and outbuildings; planted an orchard; and began building a large New England–style frame house. By 1830 the farm was numbered among the better ones in the township and was known for its “neatness and arrangement.”
A bitter blow fell when Alvin died suddenly, only six weeks after the angel Moroni’s visitation. The family’s “happiness [was] blasted in a moment,” and Joseph, Lucy, and the children “were for a time … swallowed up in grief.” On the heels of this sorrow, they lost the title to their farm. Alvin had earned enough money for all but the last payment “after much labor, suffering, and fatigue” before his death and had also begun the construction of their new frame home. When the first land agent died, there was a misunderstanding, and through deception the carpenter they hired to finish their home acquired the deed. A Quaker gentleman came to their rescue, purchasing the land and allowing them to live in the house and on the farm for the next four years in exchange for their son Samuel’s work.

When I was a new mission president in Brazil, I was interviewing some elders. I asked one to tell me about himself.
“I am very shy,” he said. He worried that his shyness was getting in the way of being able to serve.
I asked, “Do you think the Lord can help you to be a good missionary anyway?”
“I believe the Lord can do anything.”
“Then let Him help you. Do you think you can do that?”
“I can,” he said.
I have to confess that as he walked away, I thought, “Well, I hope it works.”
Weeks passed and soon the same missionaries came for interviews again. This time the shy elder’s companion said, “President, I don’t know what you told him, but it certainly made a difference. He’s become great at talking with people.” And so I was looking forward to visiting with him again.
When he came into my office, he looked down at his feet.
“I have some good news,” he said. “I’m still shy, but I asked the Lord to help me. Then I opened my mouth and started to speak. And you know what? I do it all the time now. I don’t even remember what I say. The incredible thing is that people like it. They feel the Spirit. They relate to me and to what I have to tell them.”
I was amazed to see how this missionary was transformed when he put his trust in the Lord. He became a great instrument in bringing happiness to many people.

I was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As the eldest of eight children, I left school when I was twelve years old to help support my family. After I grew up and married, my wife, Ruda, encouraged me to go back to school, and I earned my high school diploma and a bachelor’s degree in accounting.
But even when I was the financial management comptroller for Petrobras, the biggest oil company in Brazil, and I had the respect of my colleagues, I was not satisfied. I did not feel happy; I felt confused. I thought that the solution would be religion.
I had a wonderful wife and two children, Marcus and Marisa. (Later, another son and daughter, Raphael and Aline, were born.) We were not involved in a church at that time, and I told my wife that it would be best for us and for our children to find one. Many of my friends at work were members of different religions, so my family and I went to five or six different churches.
One day we found on our door a card with a picture of Jesus Christ on one side and the name The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the other. I had never heard of this Church, and I asked my assistant at work, “What is this Church?”
He said, “Boss, don’t go there.”
But Heavenly Father had heard my family’s prayers. A few days later, in April of 1972, the missionaries knocked at our door. That changed our lives. We received all the discussions in one night. I asked and asked and asked questions. The missionaries answered my questions about the Church and about God and Jesus Christ and about the standing of black people in the Church. Elder Steve Richards and Elder Thomas McIntire were two very special missionaries, and they were prepared for that moment. All my questions were answered. The Holy Ghost testified all the time that these things were true.
When they left my house, I was completely changed. With reverence and respect, my family attended the meetings and activities, but we postponed baptism because of fear of negative reactions from our extended families.
Then we attended a district conference in Rio de Janeiro. The inspired messages from the pulpit prepared our hearts for an unforgettable moment. The counselor in the mission presidency bore his testimony about Jesus Christ, after which the congregation sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” In that moment, the Holy Ghost reconfirmed the truthfulness of the things we already knew: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s kingdom on earth, the road back to the celestial mansion of our Eternal Father.
My wife and I and Marcus—Marisa wasn’t old enough yet—were baptized July 2, 1972, the most important date in our lives. All the members of our branch attended our baptisms.
I had respect for all the doctrine and for the priesthood. Because I couldn’t hold the priesthood at that time, people often asked me, “What about the priesthood?” I told them that I had complete acceptance of it.
During the cornerstone laying of the São Paulo Temple, President Spencer W. Kimball motioned for me to come to him. I looked around to see whom he was looking at. He repeated the gesture. I did not understand. Elder James E. Faust looked at me and mouthed, “Come here. He wants to talk to you.” I went. President Kimball shook my hand and took hold of my arm and said, “Brother, what is necessary for you is faithfulness. Remain faithful, and you will enjoy all the blessings of the Church.”
A little more than a year later, in June 1978, we received a telephone call from a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah, telling us that President Kimball had announced the revelation* that all worthy males could hold the priesthood. I shall not forget that day. My wife cried. I cried. We knelt to thank our Heavenly Father. After that, the phone rang many, many times. Friends from the United States and Brazil called us.
The hand of the Lord is resting upon Brazil. It is a special country. We have many challenges, but we have a very special people who are friendly and accepting of the missionaries’ message.

I am an atheist who recently came to Saipan from mainland China. One day I unexpectedly found a copy of Sheng Tu Chi Sheng, the Chinese International Magazine. Out of curiosity, I read through the magazine and was deeply touched by its contents. It gave me courage to live, strength to face difficulties, and curiosity about the Mormon Church and God. I hope to gain more knowledge about religion, because until now I could not believe that an almighty God exists in this world.
I came to Saipan by myself, and I have often felt lonely and lost. It was this magazine that gave me the courage to overcome these feelings. I give my sincere wish that the International Magazines will continue to be successful.
Li, Rei-mingSaipan

Nancy Treu of Farmington, Utah, has had one of her wishes come true. She was selected to sing a solo with the Tabernacle Choir during their weekly radio broadcast.
As a member of the Salt Lake Children’s Choir, she was chosen to compete as a soloist in the Kathaumixw International Choral Festival in Canada. After competing with soloists from four continents, Nancy took first place. “I was so frightened the night before the competition, I cried. But when I started to sing, I had a very calm feeling and I was not even scared. I know my Heavenly Father answered my prayers.”
When the children’s chorus returned to Utah, Nancy was asked to solo with the Tabernacle Choir.
Nancy is a Mia Maid in the Farmington Utah 15th Ward.

At age five, most children are learning to tie their shoes, ride a bicycle, and recite the alphabet. Stephen Beus was learning how to play the piano.
At age nine, Stephen made his first symphony appearance with the Oregon East Symphony. At age 11, he played in his first international competition and took fifth place. He returned to the same competition three years later and placed first.
The older Stephen got, the more piano became a major focus in his life. He won numerous state, regional, national, and international competitions. He appeared on stage with renowned conductors and famous orchestras. He performed and was interviewed on national radio. A television station from his home state of Washington produced and aired a documentary about him. He also gave benefit concerts and solo recitals. And through all of this, he was able to excel at school and keep his focus on living the gospel.
At age 18, most aspiring piano performers are practicing three to six hours a day and learning new pieces to help them gain prominence and earn entrance into prestigious music schools. Stephen is putting all that aside to serve a mission in Finland.
Although he loves piano performance, he realizes that the most important performance at this time in his life won’t be at a piano, but behind a badge engraved, “Elder Beus.”
“I won’t be learning new repertoire, and all the other pianists will be home practicing,” Stephen says. “But I think it’s more important for me to go on a mission right now.”
Although he will be putting a promising career on hold for two years, Stephen doesn’t believe that this is different from what all missionaries do. “Every missionary has to give up something to go on a mission. Some people leave girlfriends, careers, college, sports, and other things.”
Along with practicing daily, which Stephen has done for three to six hours a day except Sunday, he will also be giving up recitals and performances. “I may not be heard for two years, which is not usually ideal for pianists. I have just begun to receive invitations for recitals and performances, which is a long-awaited mark in my short career.”
But Stephen believes the blessings outweigh the sacrifice. “I’ve been greatly blessed in my life with a wonderful family and with a testimony of the gospel. The least I can do is to share the Book of Mormon and the gospel with other people so they can experience the joy that comes with knowing and living the truth.”
As Stephen prepares for his mission he muses about the possibilities of using his musical talent to share the gospel. “If it’s effective, I’d like to do it.” He says there have been numerous times he has felt the Spirit through music and hopes that he can help others have that feeling. There have been piano performances when Stephen felt his playing was like bearing his testimony.
Although his testimony isn’t based on music, he says that music has helped strengthen it. “I think music is a supplement to my testimony. It’s just one of the beautiful things that God has given for our enjoyment. ‘Men are, that they might have joy’ (2 Ne. 2:25), and I think good music is one thing that can help us have joy, because it brings the Spirit.”
Stephen has been practicing the piano for 13 years. He has studied under prestigious teachers and performed in numerous venues. He has earned respect for his talent and learned to touch audiences. But he says his learning is worth nothing if he doesn’t first try to live what he believes.
He quotes 2 Nephi 9:28–29: “When they are learned they think they are wise, and they hearken not unto the counsel of God, for they set it aside, supposing they know of themselves, wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not. … But to be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God.”
Stephen says that as much as he enjoys music, it would be selfish if he let that get in the way of his desire to serve a mission. “That scripture has had a powerful influence on me. Music is a beautiful gift from God, but if I were to let it interfere with the most essential things in my life, my music would then become foolishness.”
As much as Stephen loves music, his testimony and love of missionary work is stronger. “I know that serving the Lord for two years is more important than anything else I could do, even though it is hard to leave some things behind.”
After he returns from his mission, Stephen plans on restoring any piano skills he might lose during his mission. He says he will have to work extra hard to catch up with the competition. Then he would like to refine his skill even further by leaving his hometown of Othello and attending the Peabody Conservatory of Music in Maryland or Juilliard in New York.
Stephen says the standards he chooses to live by aren’t always accepted in the music community. He hopes that serving a mission will give him more strength to be a positive influence in that community. He also hopes that going on a mission will strengthen the confidence he needs to share the gospel when he returns.
Whatever he does, Stephen hopes that the talent he has will give him the opportunity to serve others and share the gospel. He believes that’s one of the reasons he has his talent. “I think God expects me to develop my talent and try to bless other people with it.”
So his love for the piano won’t keep him from serving a mission. “You have to make a sacrifice to do anything worthwhile.”

Years later I thought of that moment again. My wife and I were being taught by the missionaries. The missionaries asked me, “Do you believe that you can become like God?” I had never thought about it. But I thought, “If Heavenly Father is actually my Father, He would want the best for me, like my dad did. He would want me to be able to become like Him.” So I said to the missionaries, “Yes, I believe I can be like my Heavenly Father.”
The moment I answered, I knew what I said was true.

A video shown during the general Young Women meeting featured counsel from President Thomas S. Monson—as well as comments from a group of young women and their leader about an experience they had learning to seek and receive the Lord’s guidance.
Last summer our young women had a burning question. They wanted to know what the official position of the Church was relative to swimsuits. Rather than give them an answer that we were inclined to give them ourselves, we determined that we’d be wiser, as their leaders, to turn them to the Source. They could ask; they could find out for themselves and have a process and an understanding of how it feels and how it works to seek and to get information from heaven personally so that they could replicate that process later in their lives.
When we first started out, I just thought, “Well, OK. It’s just another assignment to take home and study on.”
This experience helped me come closer to Heavenly Father.
It’ll help me too when I am older with my own daughters.
As soon as I started really searching for the answer, it came really quickly.
As we looked at this from a doctrinal point of view, there was no more fundamental source than the scriptures.
At first I really tried to find the answer in the scriptures, and it didn’t seem to be there.
But as I got deeper in the subject, I felt myself wanting to learn more and find out more.
I kept on finding all these scriptures about modesty, like a virtuous woman is modest, and at first, that didn’t make sense to me. And then prayer—I was kind of expecting specific answers through prayer, and I wasn’t getting them. And then as I realized, after I got my answer, prayer just brought the Spirit and the scriptures did have the answer all along, that [modesty] was more of an attitude.
I’ve gotten some answers, but they weren’t very specific, of course, because I always have to do my part and learn for myself.
And I was expecting to be told, “This is what you can wear. This is what you can’t wear.” I didn’t want it to be like [it is] because then it was my choice and I didn’t have the exact rules. But I actually am really grateful now that that is the answer that I got because I think that’s much more applicable to all the girls around the world.
I just felt myself becoming closer to my Heavenly Father, and my heart just grew, and especially with these girls, finding out everything that they went through to find their answers just made my heart swell for all of them; I have so much love for all of them.
As we engaged in this process together and shared our hearts and received inspiration and felt the effect of the Spirit, we became something different. They learned that Heavenly Father cares about what they care about. They learned that He loves them. They learned that whatever they ask, He’ll listen and He’ll answer.
I think that through this process I’ve kind of realized that getting answers is not just a once-in-a-lifetime thing, that it’s something I can use all the time. And in order to get those answers, I have to be steadfast in saying my prayers and in reading my scriptures and continuously keep that Spirit with me.
I can pray to Him whenever I need to, and He is there for me, no matter what. He is always by me, and He is always helping me through every situation.
Whenever I feel sad or whenever I need help, I can always ask Him.
I know who I am, and I know what I stand for, and I know how I feel when I wear the right kind of clothing. And I know that if I dress modestly that I can be closer to my Heavenly Father and closer to the Spirit.
It’s an amazing realization when you look back through my journal and find out that almost every day I’ve had prayers answered and my questions answered through the Lord.
We can find truth in the scriptures, the teachings of the prophets, the instructions from our parents, and the inspiration that comes to us as we bend our knees and seek the help of God.
Sometimes the best answers that young people can get to the questions of life are found when they are upon their knees calling upon our Heavenly Father.
And I testify that if they will remember that the Lord is mindful of them and will answer their prayers, they will be able to meet every challenge that comes to them.

Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles learned a significant lesson about the influence of daily prayer and scripture study in our lives and how we choose to honor the Sabbath day. As a heart transplant doctor, he often had to work on Sundays to save lives, like many people in health care.

“In 1980 we moved as a family across the street from the hospital where I trained and worked. I worked every day, including Sundays. If I finished my Sunday work by 2:00 p.m., I could join my wife and daughter and drive to church for meetings that began at 2:30.

“One Sunday late in my first year of training, I knew that I would likely finish by 2:00. I realized, however, that if I stayed in the hospital just a little longer, my wife and daughter would depart without me. I could then walk home and take a needed nap. I regret to say that I did just that. I waited until 2:15, walked home slowly, and lay down on the couch, hoping to nap. But I could not fall asleep. I was disturbed and concerned. I had always loved going to church. I wondered why on this day the fire of testimony and the zeal that I had previously felt were missing.

“I did not have to think long. Because of my schedule, I had become casual with my prayers and scripture study. I would get up one morning, say my prayers, and go to work. Often day blended into night and into day again before I would return home late the following evening. I would then be so tired that I would fall asleep before saying a prayer or reading the scriptures. The next morning the process began again. The problem was that I was not doing the basic things I needed to do to keep my mightily changed heart from turning to stone.

“I got off the couch, got on my knees, and pleaded with God for forgiveness. I promised my Heavenly Father that I would change. The next day I brought a Book of Mormon to the hospital. On my to-do list that day, and every day since, were two items: praying at least morning and evening and reading in the scriptures. Sometimes midnight would come, and I would have to quickly find a private place to pray. Some days my scripture study was brief. I also promised Heavenly Father that I would always try to get to church, even if I missed part of the meeting. Over the course of a few weeks, the zeal returned and the fire of testimony burned fiercely again. I promised to never again fall into the spiritual death trap of being casual about these seemingly small actions and thereby jeopardizing things of an eternal nature, regardless of circumstances.”3

“He herded sheep until the age of nine; then he was placed in boarding school. Since the people there could not pronounce his real name, they gave him an English one. The only problem was that they also gave three other children the same name. So there was a number one, two, three, and four with the same name.
“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the store baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to participate in the Church’s education program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the denim pants he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.”
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered around my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of socks, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband is now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a ride on his back. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter after we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”

On a late spring day the telephone roused me from a peaceful sleep. I groggily looked at my alarm clock and saw that it was five in the morning. I knew that phone calls at that hour usually don’t bring good news. My father rustled downstairs and I listened.
“Oh no, Mom. I’m so sorry …” his voice trailed off, and I heard a long, deep sigh. Instinctively I wondered if my grandparents were okay. My father spoke again. “Yes, I can get there. I’ll leave this morning. I’m sure that Maryanne will come, too. You rest, if you can. I know there are things to arrange, but leave them to your home teacher. … The kids? Yes, I think they can make the trip.”
As he spoke those words, I knew that I would not go fishing again with my Grandpa McClary in the Windmakers.
As the weeks passed, I wondered if I would ever visit the Windmakers again. Grandpa McClary was so much a part of those trips, from the packing ritual on Saturday to the gingersnaps each evening at water’s edge. I knew how difficult it would be for me to look upstream and not see him smiling and waving, the old blue cap perched on his head The trip wouldn’t be the same; therefore, I reasoned, it wouldn’t be as good. And the secret of the Windmakers? Maybe Grandpa was just talking. Maybe there was no real secret. I made up my mind: no more trips to the Windmakers. It was a part of my life that was over. All good things must come to an end, and this was one of them. I congratulated myself on my maturity. I was learning some lessons early in life, or so I thought.
School let out, and I got a part-time job at a grocery store. August was coming fast, and to my satisfaction, nothing had been said about a fishing trip with my father. Certainly I wasn’t going to bring up the subject.
Then my mom stepped in.
I was at the grocery store one Monday afternoon pulling cans of corn to the front of the shelf, my thoughts a million miles away.
“Excuse me, sir, but where may I find the canned corn?”
“Right here—oh, hi Mom! I didn’t recognize your voice. Guess my mind was wandering.”
“Thinking of a vacation? Tahiti? Paris? Fishing with your father?”
“Tahiti sounds fine, but I don’t think I’ll be going to the Windmakers without Grandpa.” A slight look of disappointment flickered across her face, but she quickly recovered and smiled.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the same. But have you thought it might be a great trip for just you and your father?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I answered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
She turned her head as though looking for something farther down the aisle. “Do you have a break coming, Jason? I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”
“Sure, I can take a few minutes. Let me check with Bill. Then I’ll meet you outside.”
Mom was sitting on the curb along the store’s parking lot. “Pull up a chair,” she said, motioning to the space next to her on the curb. “You’ve been on your feet since you came to work, I imagine.”
“You’ve got that right. So what’s up, Mom?”
“I’d like to talk about Dad’s vacation. I know that he’s just waiting for you to drop a hint about going back to the mountains. He’d take you up on it in a second, if he thought you wanted to return to the Windmakers.”
“But that’s the point, Mom. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ve decided I don’t want to go back there. That whole trip depended so much on Grandpa. He did everything.”
Mothers everywhere, I’m sure, are among the most persistent people in the world, and mine was no different. I could see by the look she gave me that she wasn’t about to let the subject die.
“Do you know why Grandpa McClary always took your father to the Windmakers?”
“Well, the fishing was always pretty good.”
“Think, Jason. That was much more than a fishing trip, and you know it.” She straightened her back and looked directly at me. “Your great-grandfather McClary was a miner. He was a hardworking man, and I guess a little bit stern. Maybe he had to be, because there wasn’t much room for frivolity in those days. Don’t mistake me, he was a good person and provided well for his family during some very lean years. But there was a price. He didn’t get as close to his children as he might have, particularly his oldest son, your Grandpa McClary,” Mom explained softly. “There was a distance between them, even though I know they loved each other.”
I’d heard only a little about my great-grandfather. I knew he worked in the mines, and that not a man in the county could hold out long against him in an arm wrestling match. But that was the extent of my knowledge about him.
“Grandpa McClary very simply did not want any distance between him and his son,” Mom continued. “He wanted to be close, just as your father wants always to be close to you. The fishing trip was one way of accomplishing that. It wasn’t a gimmick, understand. It was a tradition—a family tradition, started with a purpose.” Mom reached over and put her arm around my shoulders. “Jason, I just don’t want to see a third-generation legacy end.”
My head was down. “I didn’t think of it that way,” I said. Maybe my newfound maturity was really no more than an old-fashioned case of selfishness. Strong families have strong traditions. And I was on the verge of ending one that began 30 years earlier with my grandfather and father. I looked at Mom. “I’ll talk with Dad tonight.”
“Thanks, Jason. This means a lot to him,” she said, standing up. “You’d better get back to work now.”
It was a family custom to talk about the upcoming week and make plans after home evening. When the lesson was over, Dad looked at each of us. “Business?” he asked. “How about you, Maryanne?”
“A stake Primary meeting on Tuesday. That’s it for me.”
“Melissa?”
“Kristin asked me to come to her house on Thursday. Mom said it was okay with her if it’s okay with you,” my sister said.
“I don’t see why not, as long as Kristin’s parents know about it. Jason?”
“I’m only working Thursday and Friday of this week, so everyone should see me around a little more,” I said.
“Good. We haven’t seen enough of you since you started your job,” Dad said. He closed the family home evening book and started to stand up.
“Dad, there is something else,” I said. “I was wondering what we were going to do about our vacation in August.” I spoke slowly. “I’d like to go fishing again in the Windmakers.”
My father sat back down in his chair, a startled look on his face. “Are you sure, Jason?”
“I’m sure. It’s something that I don’t want to give up.”
Dad leaned all the way back in his chair. “This comes as a surprise. I didn’t think you wanted to go, so that’s why I never asked.” He looked at Mom and Melissa. “How about you two?”
“I think it would be great if you and Jason went to the mountains,” Mom answered, not trying to conceal her excitement in the slightest way. “Don’t worry about us. Melissa and I don’t exactly sit around and mourn your absence. It’s a time when we can do some things together, too.”
Dad’s enthusiasm was bubbling like a pot of boiling water. “Of course I need to check with Grandma, but my guess is that her only question will be why it took so long to ask. I’m sure we can find all the gear. Yes, I think we can work it all out.” He took off his glasses and bound out of his chair. “I’m going to the garage to begin sorting through some of the equipment.”
I can remember few times when I’d seen my father as happy. He reached the door leading to the garage and turned back towards me. “Jason, we’re going to the Windmakers.”
And so we did. Two weeks later, we left for Springvale on a Friday afternoon. Saturday morning, Dad rummaged through Grandpa’s basement. He found everything we needed for camping. He even came across Grandpa’s fishing hat and tried it on. “Naw, let’s retire it,” he said while glancing in a mirror. “Only Grandpa could wear this thing and make it look right.” We spent all afternoon packing. The results weren’t up to Grandpa’s standards, but we guessed he would have approved anyway. Dad pointed the pickup truck toward the street, so that we wouldn’t lose precious seconds Monday.
On Sunday we went to church. In priesthood meeting, Dad stood and introduced us. “I’m Richard McClary, and I grew up in this ward. This is my son, Jason, and it’s a family tradition for us to go fishing here at this time of the year. We’ll be back in our home ward next week, but I’ll be sure to have my mother tell you who was victorious—the fish or the fishermen.”
Monday, we arose before dawn and ate a big breakfast with Grandma. We drove to the Windmakers and set up our camp just as we had in all the previous years. We fished all day. In the evening, Dad took over the cooking chores. “You’re not as good as Grandpa, but you show potential,” I told him between bites.
After dinner, we went to the edge of the stream. Right on cue, Dad pulled a bag of gingersnaps from his coat. We climbed a couple of boulders, munched on cookies, and talked for hours as the sun dropped below the ridge line and the stars took their places in the sky. The wind came huffing down the canyon, like an old friend calling.
“The Windmakers, Jason. I’m glad we came.”
“So am I.”
With the wind on my face, sitting at streamside, it seemed that Grandpa McClary wasn’t very far away at all.

One of the most tender moments of my spiritual life was the day a woman, Rose Wallace Bennett, authoress of the Gleaner Sheaf, told me that as a little girl she was present in the dedicatory services of the Salt Lake Temple. She described also the day Wilford Woodruff had a birthday, his ninetieth, when it was a little girl’s privilege to take forward to him in the Tabernacle ninety roses in a setting of some eight thousand children between the ages of eight and twelve, all in white. They had gathered to honor him; and then as he had come into the building (under some pretense that there was need of an organ repair), they arose and sang, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.” She could not talk about what it felt like to see his tears, or again, what it was like to be in the temple, without herself weeping. But what she said to me was: “Young man, my father brought me to the edge of City Creek Canyon where we could look down on the temple. I testify to you that there was a light around the temple, and it was not due to electricity.”