Gospel Story Finder

Twenty years ago, 60 years after that brave woman left her home, my brother Nelson and I travelled back to Lithuania together. We were on a journey to discover our long-lost family connection. We found more than we expected.
I believe we were moved by the spirit of Elijah to begin that search. We hoped, at least, to find the records of our ancestors so that we could give them the opportunity of receiving the covenants of God in the Lord’s House.
We only had scraps and pieces of clues to help us begin the search. We had a picture of a cousin named Marcelle who was a child when my grandmother left the country. We also had two postcards sent by Marcelle to our family in Brazil. They had been sent without a return address, but they had a post-office stamp naming the city from which it had been mailed. One postcard was mailed in 1935, and the other in 1945. They had been mailed from two different cities.
We would only be able to look for our family in Lithuania for four days before having to return home. Time was short. On our first day, we asked our guide to take us to the city the more recent postcard had been mailed from. We figured we should start there. We hoped the people in the most recent place she had lived might remember her.
After a two-hour drive, we noticed a mistake. Our guide had not followed our instructions. He had taken us to the city where the first postcard had come from. Disappointed, we asked the guide to take us to a Catholic Church, hoping we could find some information about the whereabouts of our cousin Marcelle or her family.
I can still picture in my mind the small Catholic Church we were taken to. As we arrived, I saw a priest locking the gate leading to the entrance of the church. He appeared to just be leaving.
We parked our car quickly and hurried to stop the priest to ask him if he had ever heard of a Marcelle Aidukaitis. To our surprise, he told us that he had known a woman by that name. She was a nun who had passed away 10 years earlier. He did not know if this was the Marcelle we were looking for, but he said he knew where her family’s home was and would be willing to take us there.
The family we met was indeed the family we were looking for. We had found our family in Lithuania. We had found a needle in the haystack on our very first try. A real miracle.
I still think of how God guided us that day. First, contrary to our instructions, our guide took us to a different city than the one we were expecting to go to. Next, we arrived at the Catholic Church at the precise moment the priest who remembered Marcelle was leaving the premises. If we had been delayed by only 30 seconds on that two-hour drive, we would have missed the priest. If the priest had not needed to take the time to lock up, we would have missed him. If anything had gone differently, I have no idea if we would have been able to find our family during that trip—if ever.
But God knew our intent, and He guided us exactly to where we needed to be.
Three days later, we had a family reunion with the relatives we found in Lithuania. There were over 60 family members present. An incredible thing.

I was getting to know my new bishop when he said, “You said everything is fine, but something seems wrong.”
I explained that I was constantly behind in my coursework. I was depressed, lonely, and struggling with social anxiety.
“You are too hard on yourself,” he said. He taught me about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Savior’s patience and mercy. He also suggested that I talk to my parents and consider the possibility of therapy.
I started seeing a therapist. It didn’t solve everything at once. But because of my loving bishop, I got the help I needed.
Brenna H., Utah, USA

That night at home I told Mom that the whole team would be going to Baltimore to see the Orioles’ doubleheader the following Saturday. That was our reward.
“Oh, Billy. I’m sorry. We’re going to your grandmother’s next weekend.” Gran was getting ready to move to the retirement community near our home. “I know you’re disappointed,” Mom went on, “but she called and asked if we’d help by cleaning out her attic.”
Well, I slumped off to my room and thought about how rotten it was to miss out on the Orioles games. I mean, people call me Billy-O because I’m such an O’s—that’s what we call the Orioles—fan. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.
But happen it did, and the next Saturday I was where I didn’t want to be—at Grandma’s old house in the country.
When I went up into the attic with Mom to go through old boxes, I found some neat stuff. I was so busy looking at things that I almost forgot about the Orioles game. Then I found the box.
“Hey, Mom, look at this! It’s scrapbooks full of news clippings about the Orioles! Sherm Lollar, Stan Benjamin, Howie Moss, Kenny Braun. I’ve never even heard of these guys. They aren’t on any of my baseball cards.”
Mom said, “Let me see, Billy.”
“Wow! This stuff is from the 1940s, Mom. And everything’s written by the same person, Stats McGillicudhay.”
Mom looked at the scrapbooks, opening each book in turn. She smiled as she ran her fingers up and down the yellowed newspaper clippings. “I think you’d better ask Gran about this later.”
I wasn’t sure what Gran would know about baseball, but it was her house, so maybe she’d know something about where it all came from. I set the box aside, and we kept on sorting things—old clothes over there, books over here, and so on. Every now and then Dad came up and carried another box away. I held on to the baseball box.
Finally we finished and went down to one of Gran’s great dinners—fried chicken, potato salad, apple pie—the works!
After dark, Gran and I sat on the porch, watching fireflies.
“Gran, who was Stats McGillicudhay?”
“What? Where’d you hear that name, Billy?”
I told her about the scrapbooks in the attic, and she laughed softly. She was quiet for a long time before she said, “I lived in Baltimore when I was a girl. My grandfather took me to many baseball games every summer. The Orioles were in the old International League then. I loved baseball—the heat, the sounds, the smells, the hot dogs, the soda pop, and, of course, the game itself. Most of all, I loved the special time I spent with my grandfather.
“In high school I wrote for the school paper, but it wasn’t fashionable for girls to write about sports. That was a boy’s-domain-only in those days. So I wrote articles about books, records, and dances under my name, and slipped in baseball articles under the pen name of Stats McGillicudhay.
“I used the same pen name to write baseball stories for the local paper, too, and kept on writing them clear through college. Then I married your grandfather and, what with the farm and my kids, I never got around to even going to another baseball game, much less writing anything. In fact, living so far out in the country, I hardly ever even saw a game on TV.”
I could hardly believe it. My grandmother had been a sports writer! I told her all about our Little League season, and she really listened and understood everything.
“Billy,” she said, “next summer when I’m in the retirement community, maybe they’ll let me write about the Little League games for the Bridgeville Times. I’d like that. It would make this move easier for me if I had something to look forward to.”
That was two weeks ago. Today I got a letter from Gran. In it were tickets to the Orioles’ three-game series with the Blue Jays next week. She said that she had the seats next to mine and that if Mom or Dad would take us, I could explain to her any changes in the game since she last saw one.
Yeah, I can do that.

Cheery music plays on the radio. Colored lights twinkle on our Christmas tree, and lighted candles gleam in the kitchen. The smell of homemade pizza slowly fills the house.
I feel like jumping and squealing, but Mommy asks, “Will you please set the table?” So I set seven places—one each for me, Mommy, Daddy, Great-Grandma, Uncle Phil, Heather, and Stacie. Tonight they are coming for dinner. After we eat, I can play with my cousins until bedtime. I can’t wait to show them my favorite dolls!
Soon the doorbell rings. Uncle Phil helps Great-Grandma through the door. “What are you doing up so early?” he teases in his loud, jolly voice. I giggle. He always says this, even when it’s late. Great-Grandma kisses me on the cheek and says, “Hello, sweetheart.” She always says this too.
I sit between my cousins, and Daddy asks a blessing on the food. We eat and laugh, and I am happy that Mommy has saved me five whole olives. I put them on my fingertips, then eat each olive one by one.
After dinner, I tug Stacie’s arm. “Do you want to play dolls?” She shakes her head and follows Uncle Phil into the living room. “Will you play dolls with me?” I whisper to Heather. But she follows Stacie.
“Let’s sing Christmas carols!” Mommy says, pulling back the piano bench. Laughing and clapping, we sing “Jingle Bells” as loud as we can. We sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Deck the Halls.” I don’t know all the words, so I hum and clap until I’m tired.
“Do you want to play dolls now?” I ask Stacie.
“No,” she says. “I want to keep singing with Great-Grandma.”
My throat feels tight. Soon big tears roll down my cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Daddy asks, leading me away from the piano.
“I want to play with Heather and Stacie,” I cry. “I’m bored!”
“But, sweetie,” Daddy says, “Great-Grandma would be bored without you.”
I frown and wipe my eyes.
“See how happy she is,” Daddy says. “She loves you. She likes spending this special time with us, singing her favorite songs.”
I watch Great-Grandma sing. She smiles at me, her eyes shining like twinkling Christmas lights. I walk over to the couch and snuggle next to her. “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers, putting her arm around me.
Mommy starts playing “Silent Night,” and I sing along.
I don’t want to jump and squeal anymore. But I don’t want to cry either. Playing dolls doesn’t sound as fun as I listen to our reverent voices. I feel calm, happy, and warm—like gleaming candles on a winter night.

My sister, Sandy, and I were playing in the cornfield on Saturday morning, pulling up dried cornstalks and piling them up for a fort, when I saw something white sticking out of the weeds by the road. I ran to see what it was. “Sandy!” I yelled, running back toward her.
“What’s wrong, Jamie? Did you see a snake?”
“It’s a horse!” I panted excitedly. “It’s white with a gold and orange and blue saddle. There’s a gold tassel on its head.”
We quickly ran back to the spot where I had discovered the horse. “See!” I shouted.
“Wow! I wonder where it came from.”
“It must be from a carousel,” I said.
“But how did it get here?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? It’s ours—finders, keepers! Help me carry it.”
“Carry it where?”
“Let’s put it in the old stable,” I said. “Dad never goes in there anymore since he bought the tractor and sold old Jake. It’ll be our secret. Just wait until we get the dirt washed off!” I rattled on excitedly, hardly stopping to get my breath.
Sandy and I managed to drag the horse into the old stable.
“Jamie, I just want you to tell me one thing,” said Sandy. “How are we going to ride this horse? It won’t stand up.”
“If we had a pole like the one on a carousel, we could stick it in the ground,” I said thoughtfully.
“But that wouldn’t be any fun,” Sandy objected. “It wouldn’t move.”
I sat on a bale of hay with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hand, trying to figure out what to do. Then I gazed up at the roof. “Do you think that if we got some ropes, we could hang the horse from that rafter so that it would swing back and forth?”
“That’s a great idea!” Sandy squealed. “Let’s try it. I’ll look for some rope, and you get a ladder.”
Sandy held the stable door open while I pulled the ladder in. She had found one rope hanging on the wall of the stable, but it wasn’t long enough.
“Let’s take the tire swing rope off the oak tree,” she suggested. “I’d rather swing on a horse than an old tire any day.”
The tire swing came down quickly. With two pieces of rope, we were on our way.
I held on to the ladder to keep it from slipping while Sandy climbed to the rafter. She locked her legs around the rafter and inched her way along with the rope held between her teeth. Then she hung the first rope over the rafter. “OK, bring me the other one,” she said.
With the second rope in place, we carefully made our way back down. One rope we tied around the horse’s neck, the other under its tail.
“I get the first ride,” I claimed, climbing onto the horse.
Sandy gave me a push.
“Hi yo, Silver!” I yelled as I sailed back and forth.
The next morning, between spoonfuls of oatmeal, Sandy and I grinned across the table at each other while Mom insisted that we hurry and get dressed for church.
My Primary lesson was about the Ten Commandments. When we got to “Thou shalt not steal,” I asked the teacher, “Is finding something and keeping it the same as stealing?”
She answered, “It’s wrong to keep something that belongs to someone else unless you honestly can’t find the rightful owner.”
After dinner the next day, Dad turned on the television to watch the local news. A reporter told about a missing carousel horse that had apparently fallen off the back of a truck. “If anyone knows anything about this horse,” he announced, “please call the police or the television station as soon as possible. It is not only a favorite mount on the carousel but also a valuable piece of equipment.”
I left the room, wandered slowly out to the stable, and stood looking at our horse. It must be the same horse, I thought. Then, But maybe it isn’t.
The rest of the day, I kept thinking about the horse and the fun that we were having. But it wasn’t as much fun, and I didn’t feel right when I tried to say my prayers that night. I had trouble falling asleep too.
When we got off the school bus the next day, we raced to the stable. Sandy got to the horse first and started to swing.
“What are we going to do?” Sandy asked.
“I don’t know, but I liked it better when I thought it was really ours. I’m going to call the TV station,” I said.
A couple of hours later, a truck pulled up in front of the house. The driver got out and said, “I’m looking for Jamie Thomas.”
“That’s me,” I answered gloomily.
“I understand that you found a carousel horse.”
“Yes sir.” I led him down to the stable. The horse was still hanging there. Sandy stood in the shadows, frowning at me.
“I know how hard this is for you,” the man said as he untied the ropes.
“Swinging on that horse must have been real fun.” He handed me an envelope. “You come to the fair this weekend, and you can have all the free rides that you want.”
After he left with the horse, I held the envelope out to Sandy. “It’s full of tickets,” I said.
“You’re kidding!” She looked inside. “You’re not kidding!”
We both grinned from ear to ear. And I felt a whole lot better.

In 1898, President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was Elder McKay, and he was homesick while serving as a missionary in Scotland. He had been in the city of Stirling for a few weeks and was discouraged. One day, on their way into town, he and his companion noticed an unfinished building. “Over the front door,” President McKay later said, “was a stone arch, something unusual in a residence, and what was still more unusual, I could see from the sidewalk that there was an inscription chiseled in the arch.
“When I approached near enough, this message came to me, not only in stone, but as if it came from One in whose service we were engaged: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part’” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1956, 91).
Elder McKay took this message to heart, and he made his mind up to act his part well as a missionary and throughout his lifetime of service.
Today, the original stone from Scotland is in the Church Museum of History and Art in Salt Lake City, Utah, while a replica is in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.

[Taylor] missed his older brother and sister. They were in [school]. “I wish I could go to [school] too,” he said to [Mom]. “Next year,” [Mom] told him, “when you are five years old, you [can] go to [school]. Until then, you get to [be] my helper.” [Taylor] felt better. He liked helping [Mom]. “What are we going to do?” “We are going to [can] [tomatoes],” she said. “First we have to wash our [hands].” [Taylor] stood on a [stool] and washed his [hands] at the [sink]. “Now we wash the [jars].” After [Mom] washed the [jars], [Taylor] dried them. He carefully placed the clean [jars] on the counter. [Mom] placed a big [pot] of water on the [stove] to boil. [Taylor] helped [Mom] take the stems off the [tomatoes]. Then he sat at the [table] and watched [Mom] put the [tomatoes] in the hot water and then dip them in cold water. After she peeled the [tomatoes], she placed them in the [jars]. “Why do you [can] [tomatoes] each year?” he asked. “To put in our [food] storage,” [Mom] said. “Later on we will be doing [green beans], [peaches], and [pears].” [Taylor] remembered last year when his [dad] had not worked. The family ate [food ]from their storage for three months. [Taylor] really liked the canned [peaches]. “I am glad [Dad] has a job now,” [Taylor] said. “I am too, but we still need to keep adding to our [food] storage. The [prophet] has asked every family to have a year’s supply of [food],” [Mom] said. After watching [Mom] for a while, [Taylor] was sleepy. He brought his [quilt] and [pillow] from his bedroom and lay down on the floor. When he woke up, [Mom] was putting the [jars] of [tomatoes] on a shelf. The [tomatoes] sparkled like red [jewels]. That night in family [home] evening, the family sang, “Follow the [Prophet].”* After they sang the song, [Taylor] smiled and winked at [Mom]. He knew they had followed the [prophet] today.

We better get back to class.
Hang on. I think I found something.
Whoa! Josh, come here! Mike found 10 pounds!
A “pound” is what money in England is called.
Brilliant!
So what are we gonna do with it?
Maybe we could buy some sweets.
What are you talking about? It’s not ours.
Of course it is! Finders keepers.
No way. I’m gonna turn it in to the office.
Josh and Anthony: What?!
At least split it with me and Anthony. You can turn in the rest.
It’s not right to keep it. You can’t change my mind.
I found this in the courtyard. I thought someone might come looking for it.
Oh, thank you!
You’re such a goody-goody.
I can’t believe you wouldn’t share.
I know I did the right thing.
Label: A few weeks later
The headmistress wants to see you in her office.
Am I in trouble?
Come in, Mike! I just wanted to thank you for turning this in. Not many people would have. You’re a good example.
Oh! Thank you.
We held it in case someone came looking for it. But no one did. I thought you should keep it.
Wow, thank you!
Even if I hadn’t gotten the money back, I’m glad I was honest.

Two months after our wedding I was called as ward Relief Society president. Later I became ward Young Women president. After seven years of marriage I was still filling executive Church positions.
So often in the Church it is the other way around with the husband well known and holding the time-consuming positions. Without complaint, my husband drove the old car so I could drive the more dependable new one; he stayed home evenings when necessary while I made stake visits and conducted leadership meetings; he sat in the audience while I spoke in conferences; he willingly paid for extra supplies for Church activities; and he would listen to any problem or idea or concern I had.
What does my husband do to show he loves me? He sustains me in the callings I receive. I know I couldn’t fill them without him or his love. I hope I support him as well in his present and future callings.

Gabe King, 15, of Jeffersonville, Indiana, wasn’t exactly looking for a service project. But when he found out about his neighbor’s misfortune, he couldn’t help but act.
While working in his orchard, the neighbor fell out of a tree. He was hurt badly enough that picking the apples himself was impossible. If the apples weren’t picked, he wouldn’t be able to make a living. Gabe organized a group of about ten young women and men to join him in an apple-picking party. They chose a cool day in October and picked all day long to bring in the man’s crop.
“He was very grateful and really happy,” Gabe explains. “He would have lost a lot of money had we not picked his apples. It was a great feeling to know how much it meant to him.”

“I shared this story with some of our new elders just last week when I was driving them to their first assignment. I turned to Elder Bobby Yazzie in the seat next to mine and asked, ‘Did you ever happen to meet Elder Descheenie?’ A smile came on his face, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘President,’ he said, ‘He is the one that found me, taught me, and baptized me. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here today. I’m the only one in my entire family who is a member of the Church.’
“It’s hard to explain the thrill I felt when he told me this. Only a short two years before, Bobby had never heard of the Church, and here he was riding beside me: intelligent, handsome, clear-eyed, and anxious to go forth and share his testimony among his people. Bobby had only been out for a short time when he had his first baptisms, his own grandfather and grandmother, and since then many more.”

Elder Kikuchi’s mother struggled to raise her four children after her husband’s death. After graduating from junior high school, Elder Kikuchi went to work in a tofu (bean-curd) shop during the day and attended school at night. He became seriously ill from the exhausting schedule and was hospitalized.
“Though I was not a member of the Church or even a Christian,” Elder Kikuchi said, “I really prayed to God to help me. My recovery was miraculous, and I know that I was cured through the blessings of God and the help of medications.”

Our third part of the formula is: Fill your heart with love. I remember watching on television a very exciting baseball game between evenly matched teams. One of the teams had one of the greatest home-run hitters of all time. After the game a reporter interviewed him. He didn’t talk too much about home runs or runs batted in. He talked about his father. The ball player was Hank Aaron. He did not have very much of this world’s goods when he was a young boy, but he loved baseball. It consumed his life. He said that he and his father used to sit in an old, abandoned car that was in the rear of their lot and talk for hour after hour.

One day Hank said to his dad, “I’m going to quit school, Dad. I’m going to go to work so I can play baseball.”

And Herbert Aaron said to his son, “My boy, I quit school because I had to, but you’re not going to quit school. Every morning of your young life I’ve put 50 cents on the table, that you might buy your lunch that day. And I take 25 cents with me, that I might buy my lunch. Your education means more to me than my lunch. I want you to have what I never had.”

Hank Aaron said that every time he thought about that 50-cent piece that his father put on the table every day, he thought how much that 50 cents meant to his father. It conveyed to him how much his schooling meant to his father. Hank Aaron said, “I never had too much difficulty staying in school when I reflected upon the love my father had for me. As a result of reflecting upon the love of my father, I obtained my schooling and played a lot of baseball.”

That was putting it mildly from the greatest home-run threat that ever stepped up to a baseball diamond—Henry Aaron.

And in all they do, there is love—love both expressed and self-evident. “I love my family a lot,” Lou says, “and I know they love me too. They’ve shown me many times that they do. My daddy proved it four times in particular. Those were the four times when I fell into the water before I knew how to swim. Daddy came in after me every time—shoes and all.

“Being sealed in the temple makes me feel like I have an insurance policy on our love. If anything happens to one of us, I’ll still have my family.”

By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, age 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen herself to the gospel just a short time ago. She says: “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this Church and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.

Illustration by Stan Fellows
I buckled my daughter into the well-worn car seat. Our budget was tight, so I was grateful for the recent hand-me-down. It served as a booster seat since my daughter had outgrown her previous car seat. I looked forward to running errands on that beautiful day.
We pulled into our first stop, the library. As I unstrapped my daughter, I noticed a young Hispanic woman parked next to us. A baby, unable to fully support himself, sat directly on the back seat, hunched into a little ball. The young mother struggled to cinch the seat belt tight enough for his small form. I had two thoughts.
“She doesn’t have a car seat for her baby. I could give her mine.”
And then I talked myself out of it.
“She probably doesn’t speak English. I might offend her. My car seat is awfully worn; maybe she wouldn’t want it. If she did, how would I replace it?”
So I did nothing.
She slipped into the driver’s seat and drove away.
Before I reached the library’s doors, regret engulfed me. I knew I had made the wrong choice, and there was no way to undo it.
I pulled on the doors but they didn’t budge. The library hadn’t opened yet. I spent the rest of my errand run endlessly replaying the scene, haunted by the fact that I had done nothing.
After my last errand, I decided to try the library again. I pulled into the same parking spot as before. To my surprise, I saw the same mother and son parked beside me again. An immense burden lifted from my heart.
This time I acted without hesitation. I unbuckled my child’s car seat and approached the young mother. She didn’t speak English. With gestures, I pointed to her baby and the car seat and her car. Together we buckled the car seat in the car. As I showed her how to use it, I realized I already knew the only Spanish I needed to know: “gracias.”
My heart overflowed with gratitude to a merciful Heavenly Father for giving me a second chance to help a sister in need.
I added one final errand to the list—a nearby thrift store. I buckled in my daughter and drove carefully to the store. In the back corner of the shop, sitting on the floor, was a car seat—identical to the one I had just given away and just as worn. I purchased it, awed and humbled at the morning’s sequence of events.
Through the Savior’s gentle but effective teaching, the lesson had been planted deep into my heart: follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost—the first time.

When I enrolled in a philosophy class in high school, my dad was a little concerned. In philosophy, everything is questioned, including the existence of God. My teacher taught us things that go against religion and deny God’s existence.
One philosophy test asked, “Why have we come to the earth?” The answer I was supposed to give was so that we could become self-actualized and take our place in the circle of life. I didn’t write that answer because it’s not what I believe.
Instead, I wrote, “We have come to the earth to be tested and to return to live with our Father in Heaven for eternity with our families.”
Afterward, the teacher called me up and asked me if I knew the correct answer to the question. I told him I did but that I wasn’t going to write something I knew was untrue.
He asked me if I was religious and which church I belonged to. I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told me that he had never known any religious student who was courageous enough to stand up for his beliefs and write such an answer.
“I did not give you full credit because your answer wasn’t the correct one,” he said. “But I gave you points for having the courage to write what you believe.”
I was happy because I had answered according to my convictions and according to the gospel truths I know and am trying to live.
Benjamin M., Chile

When Papa went fishing, he took Caroline’s brothers, Ned and Albert. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama bake bread.
When Papa went woodcutting in the hills, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama braid rugs.
When Papa went in the wagon to the feed store, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama can tomatoes.
“I wish Papa would take me sometime,” Caroline said.
Mama smiled and patted her on the head.
Then one chilly night, Caroline was nestled deep in her feather bed when something woke her. Papa was kneeling beside her bed. “Come, little one,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
He wrapped a quilt around Caroline and carried her outside. As he softly closed the door behind them, the big grandfather clock in the hall began to chime midnight.
The cold nipped at Caroline’s nose and ears.
Papa carried her out of the yard, around the barn to the old meadow pond. “Be very still,” he whispered, “and look.”
On the pond were hundreds of geese.
“Wild geese,” Papa said very quietly. “They stopped to rest at our pond on their way south to their winter home.”
Wide-eyed, Caroline watched, snuggling against Papa’s big, warm chest.
Then, after several moments, with a flutter of wings and a honking so loud that Caroline had to cover her ears, the geese rose into the air.
Outlined against the full moon, the V-shaped flock slowly disappeared from sight.
As Papa tucked Caroline back into bed, he said, “In the morning be sure to tell your brothers what we saw”—he smiled in the almost-dark—“while they were sound asleep.”
Caroline smiled back. “I will, Papa.”
She would tell them. She would tell them about the most wonderful moment of her life that happened at midnight with Papa.

Our grandson, then six-year-old Jeffrey Monson Dibb, accompanied by a six-year-old playmate, once paused at an end table in his house on which there was a picture of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. Our grandson’s friend pointed to the picture and asked, “Who is that man?”
Jeff replied, “Oh, that’s Elder Jeffrey Holland of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. He’s named after me!”
This same namesake of Elder Holland’s, along with his young friend, went for a walk one day. They marched up the front steps of a home, not knowing who lived there or what affiliation they might have with the Church. They knocked on the front door, and a woman answered. Without the slightest hesitation, Jeff Dibb said to her, “We are the visiting home teachers. May we come in?” They were ushered into the living room and were asked to be seated. With total faith the children addressed the woman, “Do you have a treat for us?” What could she do? She produced a treat, and they had a nice conversation. The impromptu teachers departed, uttering a sincere, “Thank you.”
“Come back again,” they heard the woman say with a smile on her face.
“We will,” came the reply.
The parents of the two youngsters heard of the incident. I am certain they were restrained in counseling the little ones. Perhaps they remembered the words from the scriptures: “And a little child shall lead them.”

Some months ago Sister Faust and I were privileged to hear the testimony of Sister Fay Richardson, the wife of Bishop Richard Richardson of the Nottingham England Stake. Sister Richardson said, and with her permission I quote:
“I learned not to be passive about my testimony quite a long time ago during a religious-knowledge lesson in a schoolroom. I was fourteen years old, and after asking us all our religions, the teacher asked the question of us, ‘How many of you know God lives?’
“I felt myself go hot, and my face turn red, and I thought, “Oh, no, time to stand and be counted.” I instinctively knew that no one else would raise their hand, for they were far too sophisticated to believe in God, but I slowly raised mine. Then, feeling rather embarrassed and aware that all eyes were upon me, I said, ‘Well, I suppose so.’
“How I wished I hadn’t said that! I had added doubt to what could have been a firm testimony. In the years that followed I often dreamed of being able to stand boldly in front of that same class and bear firm testimony of the living God. I wished over and over again that I could relive the experience and be able to tell them just how much I loved my Heavenly Father. Fortunately, I learned from the experience, and I never since have said, ‘I suppose so,’ where the gospel is concerned.”