Gospel Story Finder

She was a convert of three years—a recently returned missionary who was never as happy as when she was inspiring up others with the story of her conversion. When I read the neatly typed version of her story written at the request of her mission president’s wife, I was awed. And I also felt a little envious. Her testimony had developed intensively as she had studied the Book of Mormon, taught the gospel, and sought spiritual confirmation of truth. She hadn’t seen angels, but she had seen small miracles. The Lord had touched her life. She, in turn, had touched my life through sharing her story. I was raised in the Church; I admire the enthusiasm of converts.
Such experiences, I told her, ought to be reciprocal. “And so I ought to give you something of equal value in return,’” I said. “But I don’t know what.” She tactfully declined my offer to let her read my poetry. (“I never read poetry,” she said.) “Why don’t you write your conversion story?” she suggested.
“But I’m not a convert.”
“That is no excuse.
I sat down that night to start, feeling doubtful. I reread her story and felt hopeless about ever being able to compile a conversion story from my lifetime of attending meetings and teaching Sunday School lessons. The pattern of my conversion wasn’t obvious, but the material was certainly handy—I had written diaries and journals for years. But did I have a conversion story? A look back through the journals showed that I had always been aware of the Church in my life. My ancestors were baptized in England and New England in the early decades of the Restoration and later crossed the plains to Utah. I remembered always being a Mormon.
Which was how I decided to start my story: I remember always being a Mormon. I told of growing up in the Church, of going to corn eating parties and Primary, of singing solos and telling my school friends about the Church. I told how no one needed to tell me when my grandmother died because I knew in my eight-year-old heart that it had happened. I told how all the relatives and seemingly half the town gathered for her funeral in the Rexburg, Idaho, Fourth Ward chapel.
As I reminisced, a theme began to emerge: as a child, I had learned the gospel by living it. Family and teachers had taught me to look to the Lord for strength. I had prayed since I was a child. This seemed ironic, because during my adolescence I had wondered if my prayers were correct and effective. Other people told of dramatic answers to prayers and of lengthy sessions of pleading with the Lord. My prayers, in contrast, were simple, short, and sometimes quite demanding and to the point. Yet I saw, by looking back through journals and searching my memory, that I had always prayed, and that my prayers had always been sincere. When grandma died, I prayed. When I lost control of a horse I was riding, I prayed. When I was scared no one would dance with me, I prayed. When I was too terrified to play a piano solo in public, I prayed. Though not every prayer was answered immediately, all were answered.
I realized that looking to the Lord for strength was a pattern of my life, and had been a part of me since I was a small child. I recognized a strength I had questioned before, and I recognized the Lord’s influence in my life as I had never recognized it before.
As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why did the Mormon kids have such close relationships? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after a trip with the school orchestra. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at age 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.
Before reviewing these incidents in my journals and writing them out for my conversion story, I had wondered if I were capable of being an effective member-missionary. “Every member a missionary” had rung guilty notes in my ears for years. Now I realized that I was a missionary—in my own way, with my own friends. Now, that knowledge gives me confidence in continuing to share the gospel gladly and openly.
I wrote next of times I had sought help from the Lord through his servants. I wrote of my high regard for one bishop in particular, of the blessing of knowing worthy men who regarded themselves as “the servant of all” (D&C 50:26). I had forgotten those men and the impact of their leadership. I had forgotten that from them came my first motivation to study the scriptures until the Lord’s words became a pattern for my thoughts.
I wrote how one morning while I was attending Brigham Young University, in Provo, Utah, I awoke feeling a need to know that my life had purpose. I prayed that as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve spoke at a devotional assembly that morning, his words would give me direction and motivation. The prayer was undeniably answered only hours later. That incident, too, I had not thought of for some time.
Throughout those events, I know the Lord was involved in my life. But, curiously, I had underestimated my ability to successfully live my religion. Writing my conversion story out—all eight typed pages of it—made me more appreciative of me. By reading my journal and writing my story, 1 understood myself better, and I saw my growth more clearly, I saw that even when I did not yet understand or accept all the principles of the gospel, I accepted the Lord. I wrote: Because I learned to pray as a child—taught by my grandmother, my mother, and uncounted teachers at church—I had a faith in prayer that carried me through periods of doubt. It was my prayers as a young child that I recalled in my greatest need.
An even greater benefit has come since writing out my own Church history. “And when thou art converted,” Luke wrote, “strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32.) I gave a copy of my story to the friend who first shared her conversion story with me. (“It was pretty good,” she said. “You didn’t know you could write it, did you?” I have judiciously given it to a few other friends since, as we have shared experiences and encouragement. I share it with nonmember friends who want to learn more about the gospel. I wouldn’t give it to just anybody—too much in it is too private. The friends I share it with are strengthened, and that strengthens me. And now, with my conversion story written, signed, and dated, I am more than strengthened; I am a convert.

My wife, Kathy, and I have known a single sister, now in her mid-40s, who is gifted in her professional abilities and serves valiantly in her ward. She too has kept the laws of God. She wrote:

“I dreamed of the day I would be blessed with a husband and children. I am still waiting. At times, my situation brings feelings of being forgotten and alone, but I try to keep the focus off what I don’t have and instead on what I do have and how I can help others.

“Service to my extended family, in my ward, and in the temple has helped me. I am not forgotten or alone because I am part of, and we are all part of, a larger family.”

When Elder Perry was seven years old, his family started to remodel their home in Logan, Utah, USA. They were taking out some of the walls in the house. Each day, the workers would tear down the old walls, leaving many boards full of nails. One of young Tom’s tasks was to take care of these boards.
Each night after the workers had finished, Tom gathered up the boards and took them out to the back lawn. There he made a big pile of boards. Then, one at a time, he put them up on two sawhorses and pulled out all the nails with a crowbar.
After pulling out the nails, Tom did his best to straighten them. Then he threw the straightened nails into a big green bucket and stacked the boards in a neat pile. The workers were able to use the old boards to remodel the house.
Elder Perry says this project helped him learn good lessons. First, it taught him the discipline of working hard. Second, it taught him not to waste things. These lessons have helped him his whole life.

An example of that happy, optimistic spirit is a 13-year-old girl I know named Elsa, whose family is moving to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 1,800 miles (2,900 km) away from her friends. It’s not very easy when you are 13 to move to a new place. Elsa was understandably unsure about the move, so her dad gave her a blessing. At the very moment of the blessing, her mom’s phone chimed with a text. The young women who live in Louisiana had sent this picture with the caption “Please move into our ward!”
These young women were optimistic they would like Elsa without even meeting her. Their enthusiasm created optimism in Elsa about the upcoming move and answered her prayer about whether everything would be all right.

Nearly a year ago, in Pasadena, California, Sister Janice Burgoyne was dying of cancer. She had shared generously of herself and was dearly loved. Her Relief Society sisters were bringing her meals, cleaning her house, caring for her two young sons, helping her husband plan a funeral. It was hard for Janice to receive so much help, knowing that her sisters would find that piece of old toast behind the couch. She worried her sisters would know more than her heart. But because her sisters knew her heart, it didn’t matter. They provided car pools, tutored homework, played her piano, changed bedding. And they did it day after day after day, without complaint, with boundless charity. Such sharing forever changed those sisters. Before she died, Janice turned to a Relief Society sister and asked with gratitude and awe, “How does anyone die without Relief Society?”

Eleven years passed. I had just graduated from the medical university in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, where I was a medical resident in ophthalmology. While doing some volunteer work, I met two Latter-day Saint missionaries and we became good friends. They were welcomed in our home just as anyone else, but as soon as they started to talk about God, the whole atmosphere became tense. My parents told me that missionaries “teaching their religion” were not welcome in our home. Personally, I was not interested in religion, but I had not stopped them because there was something different in the eyes of those missionaries—something so innocent, pure, and magnificent. I was very interested in finding the source of the light I noticed in their eyes.
After my parents expressed their disapproval, I avoided meeting with the missionaries and finally arranged to meet them at their church building but just to say I was too busy to proceed with our discussions. Arriving at our appointment one hour early, I entered a room with lots of chairs and about 15 people in it. As I sat quietly, trying not to disturb anyone, I was astonished by the unusual but unbelievably familiar feelings. I felt just like I had when I was five years old and could run home, hug my mom, and tell her all that I had done—certain that she loved me, that she would always be there for me, and that everything was all right. After the long years of wandering in spirit, I knew I was home.
That night for the first time in my life, I knelt and prayed to God. If there was a Heavenly Father, I wanted Him to answer me, to tell me if the things the missionaries taught were true, to show me why I felt so different. It is hard to describe what happened next. I had never before felt the presence of my Heavenly Father so tangibly. I knew He loved me. He knew me. He had always been there. I slept that night knowing with all the strength of my heart that I had found my way home.

I was a boat ride away from home when I got the news that there had been a big argument in my family earlier that day. A very big argument.
My wife was angry. My kids were angry. Everyone was hurt. And I didn’t know what to do.
I had taken my work truck early that morning from my home island of Upolu, Samoa, and boarded the ferry to Savai’i, Samoa. This trip takes several hours in each direction.
After I talked with my wife on the phone and heard the anger in her voice, I admit that I had a hard time thinking about coming home to this situation. I wasn’t sure how I could help resolve so many hurt feelings in my family.
I pulled up to the wharf and began to pray. For the next four hours, I sat in my truck, praying about my family while waiting for the boat home.
After a long time in prayer, I received a clear spiritual impression. “Just show your love to your children. Show the love. Tell them, ‘I love you, and God loves you.’”
I’ve always gotten along with my kids. They know that I love them, and they know how much they mean to me. But I understood clearly, through revelation, that showing even greater love would be the only thing to bring my family close again.
When I arrived home late that night, my wife was still very upset. “What are you going to do?” she asked me.
I told her about the revelation I received. I told her that I felt we needed to show our love even more clearly to our kids. “I believe that will be the key to heal the pain everyone is feeling,” I said. We decided to give it a try.
Now, this was the normal night for our weekly family council. Because of the argument, however, most of my family wanted to cancel it that week. My wife and I decided we would hold family council anyway.
At first, nobody said a word. I could tell there had been a lot of tears and emotional pain in my family that day.
Then my wife began talking. “I just want you to know how much I love all of you,” she said. I watched the change in their body language. They had all been sitting on the edge of their chairs. But as soon as my wife started explaining how much she loved them, our children leaned back and relaxed. Soon they opened up as well. I also told them how much I love them and how glad I am that we are a family.
That solved the whole problem. It was incredible. All the anger was gone from our home, and we were able to fix what was broken.
Now, my family isn’t perfect. But we love each other very much. And we make time for each other. Whether it’s getting up early to read the scriptures together, going to church together, playing basketball together, sharing meals, or just listening to music together, we work hard to stay close.
Through it all, my wife and I know more than ever how important it is to show our love for our children.

I was a child in Korea in 1950 when the Korean War broke out. Our family had to leave our home in Seoul and move to the countryside. Things were hard for my parents—can you imagine trying to raise a family during a war? People were not properly fed because of the war conditions, and my mother became very sick from an unknown disease. Sometimes when the pain came, she would just be helpless. In my mind I can still hear her screaming because of the pain, and I still feel how awful it was not knowing how to help her.
One day an herb doctor told me that if I got a certain kind of herb for my mom, it would cure her. Another man told me where I could find this plant. So, because of the love I had for my mom and my sympathy for her pain, I set out early one morning, without telling anybody, in search of this plant. My bicycle was very small and beat-up, with tires that didn’t fit. The road I had to travel was about 20 kilometers long; it included two steep hills, a creek, and a mountain. I had only the name of the plant and the general area in my mind. To me the trip lasted almost forever—up and down, up and down on a dirt road. I found the general area, and when I explained to a man what I was looking for, he told me I needed to go to the home of one of the leaders in the community, who grew the plant in his garden for decoration.
It took me many more hours to get there, but finally I found the place and the plant, and I explained to the owner the purpose of my trip. He said, “Yes, it is true, that plant cures that kind of pain.” Even though I didn’t have any money, he gave the plant to me. I was so happy that I cried! I thanked him and very carefully tied the plant onto my little bicycle. I bowed many times to him for his kindness.
I started back home, down the mountain and across the little creek. About halfway up the first hill, my bike got two flat tires. I wasn’t a Christian then, and I didn’t know about the gospel, but I knew that there was a God who was the creator of all things. I said my own kind of prayer, as I had hundreds of times that day, and I know Heavenly Father heard me. He loves all his children, no matter what religion they are or what they believe. He answers our prayers if we are sincere and honest and say them with a righteous desire.
Heavenly Father answered my prayer that day, and I was able to make it home. When I arrived, exhausted and hungry, it was night; the trip had taken me the whole day. My parents had been terribly worried, even angry, especially because there was a war going on and it was dangerous. I quickly explained what I had done, and I showed them the plant. Then my dad cried, my mom cried, and I cried again. My mom was cured. She lived until 1991, the year I was called as a General Authority.
I don’t believe that it was only the plant that cured my mother. I believe it was mostly a blessing from Heavenly Father. That experience helped teach me the principle of prayer. It is my testimony that if we love God and do according to his teachings, nothing will be impossible if it is according to his will.

One of the greatest challenges I faced growing up as a child in Guatemala was poverty—spiritual poverty because we didn’t know the gospel and temporal poverty because of the lack of money. My mother died when I was five years old, which left my father to raise four young children by himself. Because my father wanted to keep us all together, he had to delegate some of the household responsibilities to us children.
I was the oldest child and was assigned the task of preparing lunch and dinner for the family every day. It was hard at first, but I learned a few ways to cook. Each day my dad would leave me 25 cents to buy the food. I would buy a pound of beans for 6 cents and a pound of rice for 7 cents. Then I would buy 5 cents of charcoal that I used to cook everything, 2 cents of kindling, and 5 cents of tortillas. I did this every day, and every day we ate rice and beans with tortillas. Even back then 25 cents wasn’t much, but this was how we got by.

In preparing what I could share with you today, I recall a piece of advice I received at devotional when I was your age and attending BYU-Provo. I don’t remember exactly which General Authority gave this advice. I think it was Marion D. Hanks, but I haven’t been able to verify that. I don’t know why the 14 words given were so deeply embedded in my memory. I would guess that there were angels watching over me who knew that the memory of those words would influence generations of Clarks to come, so they sat on my shoulder and said: “Remember this; you’re going to really need this advice.”
This is the advice: “Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.”
Now, imagine that you’re me, back when I was your age. And maybe it’s not so hard to imagine because your own circumstances are probably a little bit similar. At the time I so powerfully internalized that advice, I worked for custodial services every day from 4 a.m. until 7 a.m. and had scheduled my first class for 7 a.m. It seemed logical at the time—since I was on campus early, schedule all my classes early. However, as you can guess, it wasn’t that easy; and the temptation every day after work was to find an empty recliner or cot in one of the women’s restrooms on campus and skip that first class. If I did that and fell asleep, I could easily miss the whole morning of classes. So I had to resist the temptation and walk sleepily to class repeating to myself, “Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.”
But there was another more important way the advice influenced me. Following the advice helped me develop a pattern of always attending my church meetings. I had followed that pattern at home with my family, but now I was on my own, and I was tempted to sleep in on Sundays. Again I resisted the temptation and with those words echoing in my memory, I attended Sacrament Meeting, Sunday School and Relief Society every Sunday.
I also attended my family home evening group meetings and activities regularly. And I can tell you that habit had direct positive impact on the lives of my children. That’s literally true, because it was in Family Home Evening group that I found my true love. Where would our children be today if I had skipped out on Family Home Evening?

A few months ago, I was standing in a hall when Elder Neil L. Andersen walked by. I had just been called as a new General Authority. Likely sensing my feelings of inadequacy, he smiled and said, “Well, there looks like a man who has no idea what he is doing.”
And I thought, “There is a true prophet and seer.”
Elder Andersen then whispered, “Don’t worry, Elder Shumway. It gets better—in five or six years.”

I was a freshman in 1972—fifty-two years ago. I attended many devotionals in this building, just as you do. As a young student, neither I nor anyone who knew me—except my mom—could ever have imagined that a day would come when I would stand at this pulpit and speak.

In my freshman year, President Dallin H. Oaks was in his second year as president of this university. That year President Oaks taught his first and only Book of Mormon class—or so I have been told by him. I had the good fortune of being a student in that class.

To my chagrin, as incredible as that experience was—to be taught by President Oaks—one memory stands out. One day at the conclusion of class, he asked me to stay and visit. My hair was a fair bit longer than the standards allowed.

Looking kindly into my face, President Oaks said, “Brother Schmutz, I can’t help noticing that some of your classmates are wondering if the president of the university is going to say anything to you about the length of your hair. I would rather not. Can you take it from here?”

I nodded.

At the next class I had a new look and a new love for my president. President Oaks continues to encourage and kindly invite better behavior.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”

I have always wanted to share the gospel with others, but for many years I wasn’t successful. Until I became friends with a boy named Tiago. We lived close to each other, so we walked home together after school each day.

One day, we took a different route home and passed by the chapel where I went to church. I told him that I had been a member of the Church for a long time. I told him what we believed and how much my family had been blessed by it. I invited Tiago to church that Sunday, and he said he would come.

Sunday arrived, and I anxiously waited for him at church, but he didn’t come. Later that week, I invited him again. This happened for two or three months, but he always had an excuse to not come. But I didn’t stop inviting him.

One Sunday morning, I was in sacrament meeting and looked over to see Tiago standing there. I was surprised to see him, but he came and sat down by me and said, “I promised I would come!”

I introduced him to the missionaries, and they started teaching him. Later, he got baptized. Now we’re both preparing to go on missions. I’m so glad I didn’t give up on him!
Meiry R., Brazil

I had a conversation once with a young man I cannot forget. His story of activity, complete inactivity, and a return to activity included the description of two classrooms. He said: “When I was about 15, I started to have a lot of questions about the Church. I thought maybe there would be a chance to talk about my questions at church, but it didn’t happen. In priesthood it seemed like most of the time everybody talked about the game the night before. Sunday School was about the same—maybe a little lesson thrown in during the last five minutes where the teacher asked questions, and it was kind of ‘guess-the-right-answer-from-the-manual-time.’”
Well, other things happened—late Saturday nights, a switch to an earlier meeting schedule—and soon the young man’s attendance dropped to nothing. Several years passed by until he found himself in church again. This time his face lit up as he described his Sunday School class:
“The teacher was this unimpressive-looking guy, but he was so excited about what he was teaching. He didn’t waste a minute. He asked important questions. Everyone had their scriptures. They looked up verses, shared ideas. They listened to each other. They talked about problems at school and how they fit in with the lesson. You could tell that the people in the class were all different, but they had one amazing thing in common—they were all interested in learning the gospel. After five minutes, I knew that this was a good place for me.”

I first started playing football in seventh grade and was excited to finally be on a school team. Moving to ninth grade football, I noticed that everyone seemed a little more intense and competitive. I also noticed that the language on and off the field was rougher than it had been before.
In my monthly interview with my dad I brought up my worries about the vulgar, degrading talk that was a part of school and sports. He listened while I described how the players behaved on the field and how people talked at school. Dad listened and said that language shows the true nature of a person. I pointed out that my older brothers, Peter and Christian, had played high school ball a few years before and had not talked or acted inappropriately. It occurred to me that we actually have a choice as to how we behave and express ourselves at school and on the field. In fact, in every aspect of our lives, no matter where we are, we can choose just how we are going to be.
At the end of the interview, my dad and I came up with the idea of “clean mouth/clean mind.” The next night in family home evening, we talked about the importance of having a clean mouth and a clean mind in everything we do, including sports. Mom abbreviated the “clean mouth/clean mind” phrase to (CM)2, and we set a rule to keep a clean mouth and a clean mind at work, school, and play. We even made shirts with (CM)2 printed on them.
When I started wearing the (CM)2 shirt at school, my friends and teachers began to ask me what (CM)2 stands for. After I explained what it was, they wanted to join in. When some parents found out about (CM)2, they also asked for shirts as a reminder for themselves. Word spread from my middle school to my high school and then to the high school across town.
Because of the Internet, we’ve had people participate in places as far away as India, Europe, and South Africa. We’ve had a lot of fun getting the word out. My dad refers to the project as “a family home evening out of control.” We really don’t know just how far it will spread. Maybe it will reach clear around the world. It kind of makes you wonder how much better the world would be if more people agreed to have a clean mouth and a clean mind.

“Not again!” Howard gasped, sick at heart, as he peeked from behind the bushes in his neighbor’s yard. But no one heard his quiet plea, and the neighborhood boys again stuffed the soaked, terrified kitten back into the sack. One boy gave the sack a hefty toss, and again it flew into the canal.
This time, however, the kitten could barely struggle free. As the sack and kitten floated down the canal, the boys finally lost interest.
As soon as the boys turned their backs, Howard dashed from behind the bushes, jumped the neighbor’s fence, and raced to the kitten’s aid. The poor animal could barely meow, and Howard had no trouble fishing it out of the canal and wrapping it gently in his shirttail. As Howard hurried home, tears filled his eyes. He prayed that the kitten would somehow survive.
“Howard William Hunter, what have you got there?” Dorothy, Howard’s younger sister, asked him. She stood on the front porch, hands on hips, trying to look as stern as she thought her mother would.
“Howard William Hunter,” his mother echoed, coming up behind Dorothy. “What have you got there?” She placed her hands on her hips as the screen door banged shut behind her. Both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly.
Howard was still too upset to speak. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the kitten.
“Oh my goodness!” Mother exclaimed, covering her mouth in surprise. Shaking her head, she gently placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she explained to her tenderhearted son, “I know how much you love animals, Howard, but I’m afraid we can’t save this poor kitten.”
“Mother, we have to try!” Howard wailed. “We have to!”
Mother thought for a moment. “Come on, Howard. I think I know what to do.” She turned and hurried into the house.
Inside the hall closet, Mother found an old quilt and a small wooden box and placed them on the kitchen table. Howard and Dorothy watched as their mother lined the box with the quilt. “Now, give me the kitten,” she told Howard. He quietly placed the animal in her gentle hands, and she wrapped it in the quilt. “We’ll put the box where it’s warm,” she said, sliding it carefully under the stove.
“Now what should we do?” Dorothy asked.
“Be very quiet,” Mother said, putting her finger to her lips. “Play outside, and don’t be noisy in the house. We’ll let the kitten rest and see if it’s better in the morning.”
“How will we know if it’s all right?” Howard wondered.
“Don’t worry.” Mother smiled and patted him on the back. “We’ll know.”
Howard didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed that the neighborhood boys had found the kitten under the stove and were trying to steal it.
Before the sun came up the next morning, Howard heard meowing. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. When the kitten meowed again, he raced to the kitchen.
The kitten had climbed out of the box and was meowing for its mother as it wandered around the kitchen. Howard dropped onto the floor beside the kitten, who looked up hopefully into Howard’s eyes. He gently patted the kitten’s soft, warm fur. “I’ll get you some milk,” Howard said, taking a saucer from the cupboard. He poured some milk from the tin can in his mother’s cool pantry, and set the saucer in front of the hungry kitten.
“It’s going to be just fine now,” Mother said as she came into the kitchen and saw the kitten hungrily lapping up the milk. “That was a wonderful thing you did, Howard.”
Howard smiled up at his mother. He felt warm inside as he watched the kitten drink.

Elder Holland: Matthew 7:16 says, “Ye shall know them by their fruits.” For example, even when our children were very young, they could recognize their mother’s devotion to the gospel and the role that a woman plays in it. They were often with her as she served her Relief Society sisters. Sometimes they had to pray that our old car would start. They saw her in an old coat trudging through the snow to care for Relief Society sisters in New England. They were only little, but they’ve never forgotten that. They saw their mother’s sacrifice and faithfulness, and as a result our daughter is a Latter-day Saint woman deeply committed to service, and our sons have deep respect and admiration for the commitment and devotion of our daughters-in-law. It is clear from their mother’s example that our children know the crucial, exalted place of women in their lives and in the kingdom of God.

I started to pay my tithing when I was very young. Sometimes I earned only ten cents. But I always paid my tithing, and I know that I have always received blessings for it. Heavenly Father always provided me with what I needed, even when I was a little boy. If I needed money, a neighbor asked me to mow their lawn. Or someone bought radishes from me in the summertime. I learned at a very early age that tithing is a correct principle and that blessings come when we are obedient to that principle.

Husbands and wives, learn to listen, and listen to learn from one another. I was amused to read of an experience recorded by Elder F. Burton Howard in his biography of President Marion G. Romney: “His good-humored love for Ida was manifested in many ways. He delighted in telling of her hearing loss. ‘I once went to see a doctor about her hearing,’ he would say. ‘He asked me how bad it was, and I said I didn’t know. He told me to go home and find out. The doctor instructed me to go into a far room and speak to her. Then I should move nearer and nearer until she does hear. Following the doctor’s instructions, I spoke to her from the bedroom while she was in the kitchen—no answer. I moved nearer and spoke again—no answer. So I went right up to the door of the kitchen and said, “Ida, can you hear me?” She responded, “What is it, Marion—I’ve answered you three times.”’”