Gospel Story Finder

Twenty-eight years ago today, to my total surprise, my professional life took a completely different direction. I had spent twenty-one years in the commercial aviation industry, and I enjoyed it. We had just moved into a new home in Chicago when a call came from Church headquarters inviting me to come to Salt Lake City for an interview with President David O. McKay. All my prior plans were discarded as I was called to be a Counselor to the new Presiding Bishop, John H. Vandenberg. I had never thought nor aspired to become a General Authority, but there was only one answer possible when President McKay, a prophet of God, called me to this work.

I was so excited to tell Mom and Dad about Primary that I had a hard time sitting still in sacrament meeting. My mind kept wandering back to the story about the sons of Helaman in the Book of Mormon. Now I knew what I wanted to be for our neighborhood costume party this year—one of the two thousand stripling warriors! I just hoped that Mom could make my costume. I kept imagining how cool I would look with a big gold shield and arm bands like the young men in the picture.
On the way home, I told Mom and Dad about my idea. My sister started to laugh, but I didn’t care. At school recess the next day, when I told my friend Jacob about my costume, we got into an argument because he wanted to be one of the sons of Helaman too. Then we decided that it’d be great if we dressed alike.
After school, the guys I play baseball with heard us talking about it and wanted to be stripling warriors, too—and lots of them weren’t even members of the Church! I knew my dad would be happy to hear that I’d been talking about the Book of Mormon with my friends, but I was a little nervous about telling my mom that I had volunteered her to make all the costumes! Fortunately, when they heard about it, the other moms volunteered to help make the costumes.
That night in family home evening, we talked about the two thousand sons of Helaman. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but during the lesson, I realized that Mom and Dad wanted me to see that there was more to the story than handsome young men with shields and weapons and fighting. I guess I missed the important part in Primary because I was thinking about my costume. I was impressed that night not only by their courage in defending their country and religion and families but also because they had listened to their mothers and were obedient to the things that were taught to them.
As I lay in bed that night, I realized that I could be like one of Helaman’s sons by being obedient to my parents and keeping the commandments. One of the things Mom and Dad had always taught me was to be kind and to serve others. I knew that it was just as important for me to serve those around me as it was for the sons of Helaman to fight for their freedom. And I had an idea.
The next day at school I told Jacob what I wanted to do. He looked at me a little weird at first, but then decided it was a pretty good idea. At recess we all got together and made our plan.
It was fun for all of us to wear our costumes to the neighborhood party. But the best part was after school the next day. We put on our costumes again, but this time our weapons were rakes and brooms and garbage bags. We raked leaves and swept driveways and porches in our neighborhood. We were an army of second graders, “fighting” with love and service. The neighbors watched us out their windows with smiles on their faces. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good time.

In 1915 President Joseph F. Smith asked Church members to have family home evening. My father said we would do what the President asked, and we held home evenings in our parlor.
We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory.
Out of those simple meetings in our home came something indescribable. Our love for our parents, brothers, and sisters was enhanced. Our love for the Lord increased. An appreciation for goodness grew in our hearts. I learned that wonderful things came about because our parents followed the counsel of the President of the Church.

After about a year of working on my mission application, I gave it to my bishop to submit it to the stake president. To my utter surprise, my bishop lost the file containing my passport and medical records. This was a huge ordeal for me. That night, I got on my knees and cried my heart out, pleading with God to make it possible for us to find the file. After my prayer, I told Heavenly Father that if we did not find the file, I would work on another application no matter how long it would take.
A few weeks later, a miracle happened: my file was found at the premises of my stake president’s company. The security guard had been keeping the file all this while since he did not know the owner.
This experience strengthened my faith in Christ, that He is mighty to save.

During her work on both the YWMIA general board and the correlation committees, Sister Funk came to know Sister Hortense H. Child, now her first counselor. Sister Child tells the story of the time she needed to give an important report on short notice. Before coming to the office that day she had forgotten to change from an old pair of gardening shoes. She just traded shoes with Ruth and carried on with her usual poise. But Ruth got even: she was asked in one meeting by the president of the Church to play the piano for an opening song, but she had forgotten her glasses. She just got up from her seat in the audience, and when she passed Sister Child, who was sitting on the aisle, she took off Hortense’s glasses as she swished by, put them on, and read the music without a flaw.

“Last month our presidency had the opportunity to speak at BYU Women’s Conference on the topic ‘Jesus Christ Is Relief.’ I focused on the emotional relief the Savior provides as the Master Healer. I shared my youngest daughter’s experience with emotional health challenges that began when she was a very young girl. Over the past five years of her healing journey, she has come to understand how the Savior has been with her throughout her whole life, even during the times she felt utterly abandoned by Him and unable to feel the Spirit. She came to recognize that Jesus Christ was there in every good thing that came into her life and in every good person who offered a helping hand.
“Millions struggle with mental and emotional health challenges. One of the very difficult parts of these challenges is the stigma surrounding them and the harsh judgment by some that they are a character flaw or a sign of weakness or laziness. The effects of mental and emotional illness are just as real and just as devastating as a physical illness or injury, but the effects can be less outwardly apparent than a broken leg or cancer. The effects of mental and emotional illness can often make it hard for a person to function or find joy. Some tell those with mental health challenges to just ‘get over it’ and ‘try harder’ or ‘be more faithful.’ We wouldn’t say that to someone with cancer or a broken leg.
“Our Savior, Jesus Christ, is our greatest source of relief. What a blessing it is that we can partner with Him to help bring emotional, spiritual, and physical relief to those around us. Let us be instruments of relief in His hands for those around us, including our own family members. There are so many who need the Savior’s relief!”

I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”

This was the second time I had entered this town, and I remembered the first time 17 years before when I was seven years old. It had been a little cooler, a little later; the streets had been darkening, street lights shining, but the sounds, the noises, had been the same.
Only the feeling was different because then it was all new and I was frightened. Instead of my very own, hard-earned, bought-and-paid-for sports car, I had been sitting, small and still, in Grandpa’s black and white sedan with the worn, creaky seats, the dusty dashboard, and the smell of Grandpa emanating from every corner, every fiber, circling around me, descending on me, yet all culminating on the person of that tall, broad figure sitting beside me. The car seemed to live and breathe as if it were a part of the man who had driven it year after year, smelling always of the same shaving lotion, the hot chocolate he drank for breakfast every morning, the solution he soaked his teeth in every night, the mints he sucked on after every meal. Clean smells, sweet smells, Grandpa smells that had been woven through his clothes, grown into his scratchy face, and soaked into the ends of his fingertips.
I didn’t know him. We had lived far away. Every year my mother and father had talked about going to see Grandpa and Grandma, but money was short, and we needed a new bathroom. The next year I broke my arm. The next year … well that was the year I had come, without my parents, who lay, to my bewilderment, in pretty boxes called caskets under the ground. The car and the night had claimed them. I didn’t understand.
Grandpa had waited at a red light, perhaps the same one I was waiting at now, and looked down at me. I must have looked very tiny to such a man, my skinny legs sticking out from my little skirt, my thin hands clutching my eyeless teddy bear, my pale face turned toward him, round, red eyes waiting.
Then he smiled that smile, that special smile. Not a broad one, not a hearty one. Such a slight upturn of lips, a simple rounding of cheeks, a curving of heavy eyebrows. But it was mostly his eyes that, dark as they were, shone deep into mine, sparkling dark like black diamonds. I sat startled, my mouth dropped, and for just a moment I felt certain that he was this Heavenly Father that my mother had told me about so often. He put his big hand on my neatly parted hair, touched the side of my face, then lifted one long blonde braid with his fingers. His words were simple, like the rest of him.
“Move closer, Blondie.” He put his arm around me, pulling me close. “Grandpa’s gonna take care of you now. Don’t be afraid, little Blondie Boo.” The light turned green and he drove on.
The warmth of his body helped me forget how cold my mama and daddy were in those boxes, and the tears that fell were no longer frightened but relieved. With my wet face against his side I slept.

Paul loved to save dimes. He saved shiny new dimes and tarnished old dimes. He saved the dimes he received for his birthday.
Grandma would give Paul dimes after he pulled the weeds in her flower garden. Grandpa would give Paul dimes for helping him herd the cows into the barn for milking.
Father would give Paul dimes for helping with the yard work. Mother would give him dimes for watching his little brother.
Paul had a lot of dimes, but no place to keep them. He put dimes in his sneakers, but they hurt his feet when he walked. He put dimes in his pockets, but they fell out when he ran and jumped. So Paul took all his dimes and put them on his dresser. He kept putting more and more dimes on his dresser. Soon the top of the dresser was full of dimes.
One morning at breakfast Mother said, “You have so many dimes on your dresser that I can’t dust it.”
“And I have no place to set my new goldfish,” said his big brother.
“I have an idea,” said Father. “I’ll show you when I come home from work today.”
When Father came home, he was carrying a box. He handed it to Paul. Inside it were many green paper tubes, an envelope with the bishop’s name on it, and a small jar.
“How will these help me with my dimes?” asked Paul.
“Come with me, and I’ll show you,” said Father.
They went to Paul’s room. Paul made lots of piles by counting ten dimes into each pile. Father had him put one dime from each pile into the envelope. Then Paul recounted the remaining dimes the same way. Every time he had five piles of ten dimes, Father put them into a green tube and closed it. When no more tubes could be filled, Paul put the leftover dimes into the jar and put it on the dresser.
“What do we do now?” Paul asked.
“Let’s see how much money you put in the envelope so that we can fill out the tithing slip,” said Father. “Then you can take your tithing money to the bishop on Sunday. Tomorrow after work I’ll take you to the bank, where you can turn in your rolls of dimes. The bank will keep your money in a savings account.”
The next day Father took Paul to the bank. The lady behind the desk took all of Paul’s neatly wrapped dimes. She gave him a small book with his name printed on it. Inside, the book it told him how much money he had given the lady.
On Sunday Paul went to the bishop’s office. He proudly gave his tithing envelope to the bishop.
“Thank you,” said the bishop. “I’m sure that the Lord will bless you for paying your tithing.”
Paul felt very happy. He knew the Lord had already blessed him.

A few years ago our family moved from a fast-paced, congested metropolitan area to a small, rural property outside a quiet little village. Nearby was an abandoned blueberry farm, and through friends of the owner, we obtained permission to pick all the blueberries we wanted.
Several mornings each week that summer we piled into the car with buckets and bags and spent a delightful, delicious hour gathering blueberries. One morning our youngest son, Hyrum, seemed reluctant to accompany us. He was sure we had picked every blueberry and that it would be a waste of time to go again. How surprised he was to find as many blueberries as ever. There were clusters in places he had overlooked, and some of the juiciest berries were growing on branches he was sure he had explored earlier.

On the morning of 4 February 1976, in the central Guatemal highlands, one of the most devastating natural disasters ever to hit Central America occurred: a killer earthquake, responsible for more than 24,000 deaths.
After it was over, my companion and I were assigned to secure information concerning the welfare of our elders and Church members in the central highlands in order to make a preliminary report to Salt Lake City. We stopped in several small towns, and finally encountered Elder Choc and his companion making their way to Daniel’s home. They had worked all morning helping the wounded and taking care of the dead, and then, having done all they could in their assigned area of labor, they started for Patzicia. My companion and I went with them.
When we came upon what used to be Daniel’s home, we saw his father, looking lost, uncertain, and afraid, stumbling through the rubble. Daniel rushed over and embraced him. After a moment of silence, they both broke into tears as Daniel’s father whispered that his wife, then carrying their unborn eighth child, and two young sons had been crushed to death by the heavy adobe walls of their home when the quake began.
President Choc was deeply hurt, and the stress was almost more than he could bear. But after a long time of weeping, Daniel composed himself, looked into his father’s eyes, and said: “Can you remember the sacrifices we made for almost twenty years to go to the temple of God, and how special it was to know that we had been sealed for time and all eternity? We will all be together again. I know it! Father, the Lord has blessed you. You are his servant in this part of his vineyard. Take this bruised and broken people by the hand and comfort them. Organize them and lead them in prayer, will you?”
And then, as Nephi of old had turned to Lehi in the desert to encourage him as a leader, Elder Choc said, “Help us, Father, to exercise our faith.”
President Choc did organize the members of his branch and began the massive task of salvaging and rebuilding. He was a pillar of strength from that day on to all those associated with him.

But prestige held no particular appeal for Ezra Taft Benson. He always considered his true career to be serving in whatever way the Lord needed him, his highest honor the privilege of bearing the priesthood of God. He always remembered with special fondness an early calling as Scoutmaster in the Whitney Ward, where he led his troop to win a valleywide contest for boys’ choruses. From that early experience as Scoutmaster blossomed his abiding commitment to Scouting. Later he served on the national advisory council and the executive board of Boy Scouts of America, and he received the three highest national awards in Scouting—the Silver Beaver, the Silver Antelope, and the Silver Buffalo—as well as world Scouting’s Bronze Wolf.

Returning to Whitney years after serving as Scoutmaster, he tried to locate all twenty-four of “his” Scouts. He found many serving as ward and stake leaders but could not account for two. In his later travels, he found those boys, neither of whom had married in the temple. He reestablished friendships and subsequently had the privilege of performing temple sealings for them and their families.

The spiritual roots of my family tree have been strengthened for three generations because of the unwavering faith of my great-grandfather.

Another example in my family history reminds me not to doubt. In 1913 in Mexico, Elder Ernest Young and his companions preached the gospel to my great-great-grandmother Maria de Jesus de Monroy, a widow; her three daughters, Natalia, Jovita, and Guadalupe; and her only son, Rafael—my great-grandfather. They were baptized on June 10. Two months later, citizens of the United States left the country because of the Mexican Revolution.

On August 29, 1913, the day President Rey L. Pratt and all American missionaries were to depart, Rafael Monroy, a 34-year-old convert of two months, went to the mission home to express his concern. “What is going to become of us?” he asked. “There is no organized branch in San Marcos, and we don’t have the priesthood.” Listening to Rafael’s concerns, President Pratt asked him to sit down. He placed his hands on Rafael’s head, conferred on him the Melchizedek Priesthood, ordained him an elder, and set him apart as president of the San Marcos Branch.

Rafael, who understood that his baptismal covenant was sacred and eternal, also understood that he should share the gospel. For 23 months he and his counselor, Vicente Morales, helped in the conversion and baptism of more than 50 people. They preached to dozens more.

Then, on July 17, 1915, the revolution arrived in San Marcos. Revolutionary soldiers accused Rafael and Vicente of belonging to and supporting the opposing army, hiding weapons, and belonging to a strange religion. They took them prisoner, tortured them, and hanged them until they fainted. Then the soldiers gave them one last chance to save their lives. They would be spared if they would renounce their religion. Rafael answered, “I cannot do it, for I know that what I have received is true.”

Rafael and Vicente did not doubt. They acted consistent with their knowledge and testimony. At the end of that day, they were executed by the Liberation Army of the South, giving their lives for what they believed.1

On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.

Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.

While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”

But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.

I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.

But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.

Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.

As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.

I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.

That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.

“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”

My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.

Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.

The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.

We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.

I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.

As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.

I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”

Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!

Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.

Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.

Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.

I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.

Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.

I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.

Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.

With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:

“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).

Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.

As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.

These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.

The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

My brother Brady was a presidential management intern working in naval intelligence at the US Pentagon when the attacks of September 11, 2001, occurred. I was working in Idaho, USA, at the time, and when I saw the news that morning about what had happened, I called my boss to let him know I would not be coming to work for several days.
A few members of my family gathered in Washington, D.C., at a hotel ballroom that government officials had designated as a briefing room, where they could update the families on the ongoing recovery efforts. We waited day after day to learn whether Brady had been among the victims. The feeling in that environment was one of insurmountable grief and hopelessness. Yet our family banded together and prayed that whatever happened, we would not lose our faith.
Nearly one week after the attacks, on September 17, we received confirmation that Brady had died.
I don’t know that I ever asked, “Why me?” But I certainly asked, “Why him?” From the time I was a child, I had loved, admired, and wanted to be just like Brady. I also wondered, “Why now?” For several weeks, Brady had been planning a trip to Idaho to spend time with family. He was scheduled to come on Thursday, September 13, just two days after he had died.
The first evening back at work after returning to Idaho, I opened my professional e-mail account, which I hadn’t done since September 10. There in my inbox was a message from Brady. He had sent it Tuesday morning, just before the attack. In it he talked about our getting together and all the fun things we had planned. When he signed off, he simply wrote, “Peace.”
That wasn’t how Brady usually ended his e-mails, but I count it as a tender mercy of the Lord that he did so. I don’t think Brady knew what was going to happen, but I love that his last words—his last word—to me was peace.
Even now, more than a decade later, I occasionally reread that e-mail. Every time I do, I am reminded that it is through the gospel that we can find the peace the Savior promised: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Of course I still miss Brady, but because of the gospel, I have not lost my faith to this trial. Through the help of the Savior, I have been able to move forward with hope and with peace.

“My parents were both musical, though untrained. While we had no musical instruments at home except my father’s ukulele, the family enjoyed singing together. I was in my teens when my parents first acquired a record player. And I remember what a great experience that was and how much we all enjoyed it. When I was older, the family did acquire a piano, and some of the younger children took lessons. My wife was a music major, and that was one of the things I enjoyed about her when .we were dating. I loved to sit and listen to her play the Bach Inventions.
“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of an apartment house with only cold running water in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as did all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

I love this story of two young men who had been schooled in a monastery. One morning as they sought adventure, they passed a cathedral. The more righteous of the two remembered that they had not prayed that morning and said, “How can [we] hope for [God’s] blessing upon the day?”
The less righteous one responded, “My friend, I have prayed so much during the last two months … that I feel that I have [somewhat] over-prayed myself.”
“How can a man have too much religion?” asked the first. “It is the one thing that availeth. A man is but a beast as he lives from day to day, eating and drinking, breathing and sleeping. It is only when he raises himself, and concerns himself with the immortal spirit within him, that he becomes in [very] truth a man. Bethink ye how sad a thing it would be that the blood of the Redeemer should be spilled to no purpose” (Works of A. Conan Doyle [New York: Cosmopolitan Book Corporation, 1988], pp. 58–59; italics added).

I’m grateful for goodly parents, who sacrificed all they have ever had to ensure that my siblings and I were rooted in the gospel of Jesus Christ. My Father was the hardest-working man that I have ever known, and my mother is the most spiritual person that I have ever known. My mother was completely transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. Right before I was born, she intensely studied the Doctrine and Covenants, and gained a very powerful testimony of the Church. She studies her scriptures every single day, and some days that is all that she would do. She would always be taking notes. A lot of times when I needed to know where to find a certain scripture, I would go to her. About half the time when I walk into her room, I would find her on her knees praying audibly to Heavenly Father. She was not always this way. She use to be a very tough lady to be around, most people feared her. The natural man would, at times, get the better of her. She taught at Liahona High School for 20 years. Her rage caused her to throw one of the boys in her class through the glass window one time. Luckily it was Tonga, if it happened here she would have been sued, fired and whatever else.

My brothers and I were recently in Tonga for a surprise trip to meet her. She is currently serving her second mission there in the Nukualofa Tonga Temple. One of her students approached my older brother at the airport and said to him, “ You look like one of Solia’s sons. How is she?” My brother replied, “She is here, in Tonga, serving a mission in the Temple.” She almost fainted and said to my brother, “Your mother? On a mission? How is that possible?” I love her with all my heart. Everything that I am and will become is because of her enduring faith, love and dedication to the Master.

Such faith and obedience, along with hard work, brought Edward considerable success as a businessman. In later years, as a widower and father of ten children, he continued strong in spirit. When the last of his children was in high school, Edward fell in love with Leona Hyde. Because he was fifty-nine years old at the time and she was nineteen years younger, he hesitated to ask her to marry him. He felt concerned about starting another family at his age. But after fasting and praying, he said, “The absolute assurance came to me so that I knew without a doubt it was right to marry.” He also felt impressed that the Lord would allow him to live long enough to raise another family.
He did raise another family. I am that family.

I grew up in the little town of Mantua, Utah. My mother, Laurine Nielsen Jeppsen, was a very courageous woman. She had an illness called Bright’s Disease, which was incurable. She knew that she was terminally ill, and she had been advised not to have any more children before I came along. My coming into the world hurried her exit from it, I’m sure, but I’m grateful that she decided to have me, anyway.
Mother and I were the best of friends. On my first day of school, Mother said good-bye and I started to walk to school, which was a half mile away. I remember turning back and seeing Mother standing on the porch, watching me go. I was the youngest, and, knowing that she wouldn’t be around very long, she must have had deep feelings about seeing me leave. I ran back and gave her a hug and a kiss four separate times before I finally went to school.
I remember lying on the bed with Mother in the early evenings, particularly the summer evenings. She loved to go to bed early and listen to the birds sing and watch the sun fading outside the window of our home.
Mother taught me the gospel. One time we had a cloudburst, and the ditch out back overflowed its banks. Our house was on a little rise, but there were at least three feet of water around it. Father was farming at a place called Dry Lake. I remember kneeling with Mother and praying that we would not be flooded and that Father would get home. About four or five hours later, the downpour stopped and Father came home. It had flooded where he was too. Water had been up to his waist, but he’d been preserved. I was very impressed with the power of prayer.
Mother was very great on service. Many times I took fresh cinnamon rolls or other baked goodies that she’d made to the school bus driver as he came by our home. His wife had died. That’s just one example of what Mother did even when she was suffering.
She prepared me for her death, too, lavishing love on me. She used to look at her legs that were so swollen that they had cracked open and make jokes about them. She assured me that she would have no pain where she was going. She said, “I’ll see you baptized. I promise.” That brought a great deal of comfort to me.
My father baptized me on my eighth birthday in the dammed up ditch in back of our home. It was the first of November, and I still remember how cold the water was. Mother went into a coma the day after my baptism and died four days later.
I remember crying when I was told that Mother had died. Everyone was crying. My older sister, Mae, who was about nineteen or twenty and was a registered nurse, said, “Malcolm, I’ll be your mother.” She kept that promise.
My father, Conrad Jeppsen, served as a bishop for twenty-two years. He was also a great teacher, and he taught me many things. He taught me the principle of honesty. For example, I remember jumping up and down with joy when I found a dollar bill on the floor of a store. In those days, a dollar was really something. I would be wealthy! I grabbed it and said, “Look what I found!”
Dad said, “Is it yours?”
I said, “No, it isn’t mine.”
“If it isn’t yours, let’s take it to the clerk. Somebody will come back for it.”
I took the dollar to the clerk and learned a lesson. Since then, whenever I’ve found things, Father’s question has come to my mind: “Is it yours?”
My father was also a great one to serve others. He loved to tinker with clocks. People brought their clocks to him, usually mantel clocks that struck the hour. He’d take the inner works out, clean them up, and put the clocks back together. Then he would just touch the mechanisms with a feather dipped in very, very light oil. He kept the clocks for three or four weeks while he regulated them. Sometimes we had twelve to fifteen of those clocks, and then every midnight sounded like New Year’s Eve!
The example of the selflessness of my mother and father will always remain with me. I hope that you will always be respectful and appreciative of your parents and family. The family unit is eternal.
Listen to good counsel from your parents and leaders. Don’t assume that you know more than they do. Learn from the mistakes of others instead of making the same mistakes yourself.