Gospel Story Finder

During his second day of freedom, while he was walking down a street, he was interrupted by someone tapping him on his shoulder. Turning, he faced John Klusak, his chief accuser. “He was much frightened and begged me to forgive him as he did not know at that time what he was doing.” Klusak was convinced that “the Lord had punished him very severely,” said the elder, because the man’s only son was dying of smallpox and his mother had become gravely ill. The elder forgave him but said that the troubled man would have to ask God for His forgiveness. The son died two days later.
Because newspapers carried his picture and said such evil things about Mormons, Elder Biesinger could not do effective missionary work anymore in Bohemia. While waiting for money from mission headquarters in Bern to pay for transportation out of Prague, he sent Church literature to all of the friends he had made while in prison. Then, on June 21, 1884, before leaving the city by evening train, he baptized and confirmed Anthon Just, his other accuser, in a nearby river.

When my baby sisters were born, I was worried that they wouldn’t be OK, because they were born early and were so tiny. When we went to each hospital, I put some friendly pictures in their beds to help them feel a little better.
I prayed for them every day. I asked Heavenly Father to bless them that they would be OK. I told Him that I was scared for them. After I prayed, I felt good. I knew that Heavenly Father would answer my prayers.
Next week is my little sisters’ first birthday. They are both doing well now. I am thankful that Heavenly Father answered my prayers.

I attended a seminary graduation in Omaha, Nebraska. The speaker, again a young man, described this experience.
“Each morning I awoke to the sweet voice of my mother calling out, ‘John, John, time to get ready for seminary!’ The year rolled on and the mornings grew cold and wet and dark; still the happy voice of Mother would sing out, ‘John, John, time to get up for seminary!’” Then he added, “I learned to hate that sound!”
But then, choking back the tears, he thanked his mother for what she had given him. And I think only later did he realize that she had to be up first every morning.

“I did not have a full assurance that Jesus Christ existed. When people asked me if I believed in God, I would tell them I didn’t know, because I didn’t have a real testimony.
“One of the elders who was teaching me helped me realize I needed to work to have a strong belief in God. He told me, ‘Study the scriptures every day, pray, and go to Church, and you will receive an answer.’ I put his advice into practice, and I soon realized that my faith was growing bit by bit.
“My friends say I’m not the same anymore. They want me to be like I was before, but I can’t. Being a member of the Church has changed my life.”
Shirley Álvarez Vega,El Socorro Branch,Cartagena Colombia El Bosque District

In October 1984, I was working as a quality control supervisor for a paper mill in Orani, Bataan, Philippines. Like most paper mills, ours recycled waste paper. One day, the book Meet the Mormons was included in a load of magazines. I got curious, took it into my office, and started reading it. I learned about Joseph Smith and his vision, and I readily accepted that God would reveal himself to a boy. I did not understand the section on the priesthood hierarchy, but I liked the Relief Society section. I read the book several times.
For many months, I had been trying to find more meaning in life. I had always been an active Catholic, and had even attended several meetings to become a Franciscan nun. Still, I felt like a piece of wood drifting in the ocean.
Two weeks later, I was inspecting the raw material in one of the delivery trucks when I noticed a blue book. It was the Book of Mormon! I asked the driver if I could have it. I took it back to my office and started reading. Inside the front cover were the steps of prayer. “Maybe I should try praying this way,” I told myself. It also listed the pages that told of Christ’s visit to America. I eagerly turned to those pages. Here were the Beatitudes and other teachings Jesus gave to the Jews! Were these chapters not copied from the New Testament? Then I realized that he was the very same Christ. Surely he would give the same teachings. I wondered if Christ might have come to the Philippines, too. I turned to 1 Nephi. Who were Lehi, Nephi, and Laman? They were such strange names. I treasured both books.
Then, in late November, a friend introduced me to Karen Gerdes, a Latter-day Saint from the United States who was serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines. Karen was working in the area of Pantalan Luma, which had been hit by a tidal wave.
There was something about Karen that I had not seen in others. It wasn’t just that her eyes were blue. Her smile and her whole countenance were different. I could feel her sincerity. Happiness and love radiated from her.
I wondered why she would leave the comfort of her home, live in a poverty-stricken area in hot, humid weather, and eat foreign food—all without a salary. Why would she care? Were all Mormons like her?
A few months after I met Karen, I told her, “I am ashamed, because I should be helping my people.” I asked if there was anything I could do to help with her projects. That started our friendship. I would ask her questions about religion. I knew she understood me, because she had also been a Catholic. She did not try to convince me, but she answered my questions and gave me Church pamphlets.
Then in March 1985, Karen invited me to a fireside. At the fireside, I noticed a poster about baptism for the dead. That was new to me. I memorized the scripture reference. The sister missionaries showed a filmstrip called Run and Not Be Weary. I accepted the Word of Wisdom right there. Then they showed The Windows of Heaven. I had never known that a tithe meant ten percent. I resolved to start giving ten percent and to not cheat God.
I found myself explaining to the members how I viewed tithing: “It is like when you go fishing. You use bait—tithing—and then you catch a fish—a blessing.” Then I used another comparison: “When you remove the sweet potato tops, they produce more tops and sweet potatoes, too.”
But I did not like being called an “investigator,” and I didn’t like to be pushed. When members asked if I would like the missionaries to teach me at home, I said no. But I invited the sister missionaries for dinner the following Saturday. They came and showed slides of a refugee camp where they worked, but nothing about religion was discussed. Before they left, they gave me several pamphlets, which I promised to read.
The next week, I went to visit my mother in Manila. I asked her where I could find a priest to answer my questions. She suggested that I go to a Bible class my brother and sister were attending. I did as she said, praying in my heart that I would be able to ask my question. To my surprise, the priest began to explain the importance of baptism. I wasted no time, but raised my hand and asked, “Was there baptism for the dead before, as stated in 1 Corinthians 15:29 [1 Cor. 15:29]?” He read the verse aloud, then looked at his watch and dismissed the class. He said, “I will talk to you in my office.” He got his Greek translation of the Bible and other books, then started explaining the Resurrection. I said, “That is not the issue; I believe in the Resurrection.” After more than two hours of discussion, I was still not satisfied. He lent me two books to read.
The next day I asked the same question of an older priest. He told me that baptism for the dead was no longer necessary.
On April 1, the paper mill was temporarily shut down. I was reading a pamphlet called The Plan of Salvation when I began to feel a certainty that what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost was bearing witness, making everything clear to me. I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Church was true. I was crying. I had found something so precious. I wanted to tell my co-workers, but they would not understand. I went home early and found Karen at my home. “I know that the plan of salvation is true,” I told her, “and I want to be baptized.” She arranged for the missionaries to teach me.
The following day, I had my first discussion with Elder Johnson and Elder Barangan. I had such a strong desire to be baptized that I went to their home very early the next morning. When I told them of my desire, Elder Johnson told me that to be baptized I must obey the Word of Wisdom and attend church. I said, “I started obeying the Word of Wisdom when I saw the filmstrip, and I have attended the church several times.” They taught me three more discussions. Then on Easter Sunday, 7 April 1985, I was baptized. I felt that this was the very moment I had waited for since I was born.
That day was also Fast Sunday. I fasted, shared my testimony in sacrament meeting, and paid my tithing for the first time. After sharing my testimony, I had an even stronger conviction that I had made the right decision. I felt complete—no longer drifting, but with sure direction. I know that the Spirit bore witness to me.
Since my baptism, I have served a mission and have been an ordinance worker in the Manila Philippines Temple.
I feel so blessed to have the gospel in my life. I know that the Book of Mormon I rescued from the trash is the book that rescued me.

Dr. D. Elden Beck stood confidently before his biology students. In one hand he held a live rattlesnake.
He felt fortunate in having a job—a good teaching position—at a time when the effects of a devastating depression were being felt across the country. He was aware that once again the people of the small southern Utah communities were responding as they usually did during hard times, with determination and stubborn endurance.
Dixie Junior College, the pride of St. George, kept her doors open even though some students, to stay in school, paid their tuition with farm produce.
Dr. Beck was not a native of southern Utah, and neither he nor his family had been involved with the seemingly endless task of subduing the arid desert. Perhaps that was why he was able to see the country not merely as a place to overcome and endure but a place of breathtaking beauty. Like the natural coral, turquoise, and silver of a precious piece of Indian jewelry, the vermilion sands and blue sky dazzled him. A part of the world that had resisted discovery now seemed to him an endless frontier for study, an endless source of wonder.
The snake squirmed and struggled. Dr. Beck prepared to demonstrate to his students how a rattler is “milked” of its lethal venom, an act he had performed many times before. As he attempted to move the snake from one hand to the other, it suddenly lurched and slashed its fangs across his thumb. He reeled back in pain and instantly released the snake. It fell to the floor with a dull thud and lay still. The class was stunned. The rattlesnake slowly revived, and by gracefully throwing loops of its body forward, it began to move across the classroom floor. With shouts and screams, students clamored upon desks and chairs. To everyone’s amazement, it was Dr. Beck who tried to calm them. He gently captured the snake and stashed it away in the classroom snake pit. Then he firmly dismissed the students from the room. Supporting his swelling hand, he walked the two blocks from the college to the St. George Hospital only to find no rattlesnake serum was available.
Dr. McGregor eventually located serum in Cedar City, some 50 miles away, and it was agreed that someone would try to deliver it by car as soon as possible.
Hours passed, and the pain and swelling not only increased but began slowly moving up his arm closer to the elbow. Florence, Elden’s wife, kept a nervous vigil.
Late that night an old bootlegger arrived with the serum. Then Dr. McGregor faced the dilemma of how much of the serum to inject, for the vial was very large. After much concern, the doctor inserted the needle in Elden Beck’s arm and administered it all.
My grandfather, Dr. D. Elden Beck, lived!
The following year Dr. McGregor delivered, in the St. George hospital, the Beck’s baby daughter, Janet Ruth, my mother.

All of us must speak and act in the name of God in moments when our unaided judgment will not be enough without inspiration. Those moments can come upon us when there is not time to make preparation. That has happened to me often. It did many years ago in a hospital when a father told me and my companion that the doctors had told him that his critically injured three-year-old daughter would die within minutes. As I placed my hands on the one spot on her head not covered with bandages, I had to know, as God’s servant, what He would do and say.

The words came to my mind and my lips that she would live. The doctor standing by me snorted in disgust and asked me to get out of the way. I walked out of that hospital room with a feeling of peace and love. The little girl lived and walked down the aisle into a sacrament meeting on my last day in that city. I still remember the joy and satisfaction I felt from what I had said and done in the Lord’s service for that little girl and her family.

How well I remember in the first grade in St. Johns, Arizona, that just as regularly as my mother sent me to school with combed hair, just as regularly would I mess it up when I was out of her sight. It was not an act of rebellion, nor of disrespect. It was an act of survival. For you see, at that time and that place, the accepted grooming standard for boys was disheveled hair; you cannot begin to imagine the burden that would have been laid upon me had I gone to school with combed hair and the name Francis Marion.

Later, in high school in Phoenix, combed hair was in, and so were saddle oxfords and argyle socks and corduroys. It was only on rare occasions that we ventured out of this uniform. I have observed the same phenomenon in my own children and their friends. Indeed, we wondered a few years ago whether the clothiers had discontinued manufacturing any kind of jacket except the blue Windbreaker And then, for a while, quilted jackets were very much in vogue.

Some years ago I was called, with my wife, Jacqui, to preside over the Washington Spokane Mission. We arrived in the mission field with a mix of fear and excitement at the responsibility of working with so many remarkable young missionaries. They came from many different backgrounds and quickly became like our own sons and daughters.
Although most were doing wonderfully well, a few were struggling with the high expectations of their calling. I remember one missionary telling me, “President, I just don’t like people.” Several told me they lacked the desire to follow the rather strict missionary rules. I worried and wondered what we could do to change the hearts of those few missionaries who had not yet learned the joy of being obedient.
One day while driving through the beautiful rolling wheat fields on the Washington-Idaho border, I was listening to a recording of the New Testament. As I listened to the familiar account of the rich young man coming to the Savior to ask what he might do to have eternal life, I received an unexpected but profound personal revelation that is now a sacred memory.
After hearing Jesus recite the commandments and the young man reply that he had observed all these since his youth, I listened for the Savior’s gentle correction: “One thing thou lackest: … sell whatsoever thou hast, and … come, … follow me.”1 But to my astonishment, I instead heard six words before that part of the verse that I seemed never to have heard or read before. It was as if they had been added to the scriptures. I marveled at the inspired understanding which then unfolded.
What were these six words that had such a profound effect? Listen to see if you can recognize these seemingly ordinary words, not found in the other Gospel accounts but found only in the Gospel of Mark:
“There came one running … and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?
“And Jesus said unto him, …
“Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and mother.
“And he answered … , Master, all these have I observed from my youth.
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me.”2
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him.”
As I heard these words, a vivid image filled my mind of our Lord pausing and beholding this young man. Beholding—as in looking deeply and penetratingly into his soul, recognizing his goodness and also his potential, as well as discerning his greatest need.
Then the simple words—Jesus loved him. He felt an overwhelming love and compassion for this good young man, and because of this love and with this love, Jesus asked even more of him. I pictured what it must have felt like for this young man to be enveloped by such love even while being asked to do something so supremely hard as selling all he owned and giving it to the poor.
In that moment, I knew it was not just the hearts of some of our missionaries that needed changing. It was my heart as well. The question no longer was “How does a frustrated mission president get a struggling missionary to behave better?” Instead, the question was “How can I be filled with Christlike love so a missionary can feel the love of God through me and desire to change?” How can I behold him or her in the same way the Lord beheld the rich young man, seeing them for who they really are and who they can become, rather than just for what they are doing or not doing? How can I be more like the Savior?
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him.”
From that time forward, as I sat knee to knee with a young missionary struggling with some aspect of obedience, within my heart I now saw a faithful young man or young woman who had acted on the desire to come on a mission. Then I was able to say with all the feeling like that of a tender parent:3 “Elder or Sister, if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care what happens on your mission. But I do love you, and because I love you, I care about who you become. So I invite you to change those things that are hard for you and become who the Lord wants you to be.”
Each time I went to interview missionaries, I first prayed for the gift of charity and that I could see each elder and sister as the Lord sees him or her.
Before zone conferences, as Sister Palmer and I greeted each missionary one by one, I would pause and look deeply into their eyes, beholding them—an interview without words—and then without fail, I was filled with great love for these precious sons and daughters of God.

In the 1960s during the Vietnam War, Church member Jay Hess, an airman, was shot down over North Vietnam. For two years his family had no idea whether he was dead or alive. His captors in Hanoi eventually allowed him to write home but limited his message to less than 25 words. What would you and I say to our families if we were in the same situation—not having seen them for over two years and not knowing if we would ever see them again? Wanting to provide something his family could recognize as having come from him and also wanting to give them valuable counsel, Brother Hess wrote—and I quote: “These things are important: temple marriage, mission, college. Press on, set goals, write history, take pictures twice a year.”

Janie Sigoda stared at the strange hat and shiny red notebook on the table. She was still wondering what they were for when her father started the family home evening lesson.
“Did you know,” he asked the family, “that the Nephites kept records but that they didn’t always remember to write all the important things that happened to them?”
Janie forgot about the hat and notebook and bounced up and down on the couch. “Yes, Dad,” she said, “in Primary Sister Lind said that Jesus asked the Nephites why the story of Samuel the Lamanite hadn’t been recorded.”
“It sounds like you already know the story,” Dad said with a smile. “Can you find it too?”
Janie opened the family copy of the Book of Mormon and searched through Third Nephi. “Here it is!”
Her father began reading while Mom held the baby. Janie and her brother, Chris, cuddled with Dad in the big overstuffed chair so that they could read with him the Savior’s words about Samuel the Lamanite.
“You see,” he finished, closing the book and looking at each of them, “keeping records is very important to the Savior.”
Janie’s eyes went back to the notebook, and even before her father spoke again, she guessed what he would say.
“Do you all see this red notebook?” Dad held it high, and the baby tried to reach and grab it. “This isn’t just any old notebook,” he went on, letting baby Karen play with it a few moments. “It’s a special reporter’s notebook. We don’t want to miss great stories in our family record either.”
He picked up the funny hat and stuck a card with FAMILY REPORTER printed on it into the hatband. “Each month someone gets to be the Sigoda family reporter. Who will it be first—Mom, Chris, me, or Janie?”
“Oh, please let it be me,” Janie begged.
Dad winked at Mom, then smiled at Janie. Pulling her close, he put the hat on her head and handed her the shiny red notebook. “Here’s your gear, Miss Sigoda. Next month you can read your report of our family stories to us.”
The month passed with lots of stories to write. One Sunday they visited Grandma, and Janie made sure that she wore her reporter’s hat and carried her notebook. Grandma always had great stories. “Tell me something about Dad when he was a boy,” Janie asked her privately after dinner.
“Oh, your dad!” Grandma’s laugh twinkled in her eyes. “I remember the time our bishop asked the congregation to raise their hands if they wanted a new parking lot. Every person there but one raised his hand to vote yes. Then, when the bishop asked if anyone was against the new lot, your dad raised his hand high and called out, ‘I am, bishop. If you put in a parking lot, we won’t have anyplace to play basketball!’ The rest of the congregation laughed for ten minutes!”
That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”
The month ended too soon for Janie. She read her stories on family night, wearing her reporter’s hat. She especially liked watching her brother’s face light up when she finished by reading all about his baptism.
“Janie,” Mom said, “Dad and I are proud of you, and I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus are too.”
Dad gave her a big hug, then said, “You’re the last person to hold the family record, and like the prophets in the Book of Mormon, you get to pick who keeps the record next. So, sweetie, who will it be?”
Janie looked first at her mom, then at her dad, then at Chris. She could see his eyes shining just as hers had shone the month before.
“Chris,” she said, “I give the record to you.” She handed the hat and precious red notebook to him. As Chris jumped up and down and put the reporter’s hat on, Janie smiled. She knew how he felt—being a family reporter was great.

During my rebellious teenage years I did not always want to listen to the counsel I was given. When I graduated from high school I wanted to attend a college where I could experience my freedom; even though my two older brothers attended BYU I did not want to attend a church school with what I saw as a rigid honor code. One reason was that my parents had strict rules about appropriate church attire and did not allow any casual clothes on Sunday.
This rule was especially challenging when I was a little girl because we wore dresses to school all week so girls particularly eagerly anticipated weekends so they could wear jeans and shorts. But on Sundays at my house my sister and I wore church dresses all day and my brothers wore shirts and ties. While other children rode bikes and played ball we played croquet in the backyard and board games in the house. I chafed at the rule and couldn't wait to go to college and wear what I wanted to wear-especially on Sundays.
My first Sunday at Utah State I was delighted to change into jeans after my meetings. But lounging around the dorm in torn levis and a tee shirt was not the anticipated relaxing experience. Physically and spiritually I didn't feel right. I discovered I was not comfortable departing from the habit developed as a child. From my youth I had been taught that the Sabbath lasted the entire day, not just the hours I spent at church, and if I meant to "Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy" then for me that meant dressing appropriately.
That was the only Sunday I changed into casual clothes.
From my parents I had been taught the law of the Sabbath, and dressing appropriately for the ordinance of the sacrament, and I could not turn away from it-even when my meetings were over: "He that receiveth my law and doeth it, the same is my disciple; and he that saith he receiveth it and doeth it not, the same is not my disciple."[29]
Honoring my parents, and obeying their counsel, transformed me. A rule I found restrictive as a youth became a behavior that brought me comfort and peace as an adult.

Nathan, a neighbor boy, came around to play with my son Michael. Later I took them to the park. Michael rode his bike to the park and promised Nathan that he could ride on the way home. But when the time came to leave, Michael found it hard to keep his promise. He rode his bike home himself, feeling very unhappy. Nathan wasn’t too pleased either. After Michael had time to think about it, he agreed that Nathan could have a go on his bike after all, so off they went. Afterward Michael told me, “I liked sharing because Nathan is my friend, and it made me feel happy.”

When I was a new bride, I asked my mother-in-law, who is a very good cook, if she would teach me how to make her delicious dinner rolls. With a sparkle in her eye, she replied that it took 25 years to learn to make a good roll! Then she added, “You had better start making some.” I followed her advice, and we have enjoyed many good dinner rolls at our house.
If reading the scriptures is not already a habit with you, today is a great day to start. It did not really take 25 years to learn to make good dinner rolls. I just needed the encouragement to get started. Homemade rolls have brought much enjoyment to my family. But the greater joy has come from the habit of daily scripture reading which I started so many years ago. Some days I have a lot of time to contemplate the scriptures. Other days I reflect on a few verses. Just as eating and breathing sustain my physical body, the scriptures feed and give life to my spirit. I can now echo Nephi and say: “My soul delighteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them. … Behold, my soul delighteth in the things of the Lord; and my heart pondereth continually upon the things which I have seen and heard” (2 Ne. 4:15–16). In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Let me illustrate with a sacred experience which brought these guidelines together in blessing the lives of those in need.

While serving as a bishop, one cold winter day I visited an elderly couple who lived in a two-room duplex. The modest home was heated by a small coal-burning Heatrola. As I approached the home, I met the 82-year-old husband, his aged body bent in the driving snow as he gathered a few pieces of wet coal from his exposed supply of fuel. I helped him with his burden but made a solemn resolve to do more.

I prayed and pondered, seeking a solution. Step by step the inspiration came. In the ward was an unemployed carpenter. He had no fuel for his furnace but was too proud to receive the stoker slack he needed to keep his house warm. I suggested to the carpenter a way he could work for the help he received. Would he build a coal shed for a couple in need? “Of course,” he replied.

Now where were we to obtain the materials? I approached the proprietors of a local lumberyard from whom we frequently purchased products. I remember saying to the men, “How would the two of you like to paint a bright spot on your souls this winter day?” Not knowing exactly what I meant, they agreed readily. They were invited to donate the lumber and hardware for the coal shed.

Within days the project was completed. I was invited to inspect the outcome. The coal shed was simply beautiful in its sleek covering of battleship-gray paint. The carpenter, who was a high priest, testified that he had actually felt inspired as he labored on this modest shed.

My older friend, with obvious appreciation, stroked the wall of the sturdy structure. He pointed out to me the wide door, the shiny hinges, and then opened to my view the supply of dry coal which filled the shed. In a voice filled with emotion, he said in words I shall ever treasure, “Bishop, take a look at the finest coal shed a man ever had.” Its beauty was only surpassed by the pride in the builder’s heart. And the elderly recipient labored each day at the ward chapel, dusting the benches, vacuuming the carpet runners, arranging the hymnbooks. He, too, worked for that which he had received.

Once again, the welfare plan of the Lord had blessed the lives of His children.

I feel ashamed whenever I see Earl. I didn’t like him when we first met. He was overweight and wore a plaid, polyester leisure suit that I thought looked tacky. His plump hand was moist when I shook it, and he chuckled senselessly after every sentence he spoke: “Hi, Sharon.” Chuckle. “I’m Earl.” Chuckle. “It’s good to know you.” Chuckle, chuckle.
Earl and I had been assigned to organize and execute a branch service project for the college branch we attended. Upon receiving the assignment, I’d immediately put my creativity to work. Perhaps, I thought, we could take a group of under-privileged children on a weekend camping trip in the mountains. What could be better for them than exercise, camaraderie, and clean air, I reasoned, overlooking the facts that it had snowed there last weekend, most of the branch members owned little, if any, camping equipment, and the children would surely possess none at all. It irritated me when Earl, chuckling good-naturedly, brought these details to my attention and suggested a Halloween party at the local rest home instead. How unoriginal, I thought, as I smiled and nodded approvingly at his plan.
We met several nights in succession to form our plans. The meetings were unpleasant to me, his ideas so dull that even compromises sounded boring. I wanted horror melodramas for entertainment, complete with shrieks of terror and handsome heroes with their ladies. He wanted ghost stories, all of which would surely begin, “It was a dark and stormy night …”
For refreshments I’d dreamed up whole-wheat pumpkin cakes and apples on a stick dipped in hot, cinnamoned honey and cooled. “What about their dentures?” he’d asked, again chuckling. In turn, he suggested sugar cookies and cider.
As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

My brother and a family friend received their mission calls. We drove eight hours to the temple in Freiberg, Germany, so they could receive their temple endowments.
We stayed for five days so my family could do a lot of temple work. There is a hostel for families on the temple grounds. Some other children and I helped the gardener, and he gave us ice cream. We had a lot of fun.
I look forward to next year when I will be 12 and will be able to do baptisms in the temple.
Alicka S., age 11, Slovakia

I had no idea how to find the Church in Thailand once I arrived. The internet was not yet developed, so I couldn’t look up the location of buildings. We arrived at the Bangkok airport on a Saturday afternoon. In the bus, I prayed sincerely, “Heavenly Father, tomorrow is Sunday. Please help me find the Church.”
I finished my prayer and looked outside. To my surprise, I saw a sign for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Thai and in English.
The following morning, I took an auto rickshaw to that building. Afterward, the members there gave me the address of a home closer to my rural work site where branch meetings were held. They also gave me the phone number of the full-time missionaries. The following Sunday, I attended that branch.

Stewardship—A Sacred Trust
When I was a small boy, I would visit my grandparents at their ranch during the summer. There was no electrical power, running water, or plumbing in the house. There was, however, a spring of water next to their small ranch house. The spring created a little pond of clear, pure water, where several times a day I would help my grandmother carry water to the house for drinking, cooking, bathing, and washing clothes. My grandparents loved this life-giving spring and took special precautions to protect it.
Many years later my grandfather was in his early 90s and did not live on the property; he was unable to maintain or oversee it. I drove him to see the ranch which he loved. His high expectations at seeing the ranch turned to disappointment when he realized the fences that protected the spring had fallen into disrepair and cows had damaged the spring and the precious, pure springwater had been significantly polluted. … He felt somehow he had not protected that life-sustaining spring which had meant so much to him.
Just as the pure spring was polluted when not protected, we live in a time when virtue and chastity are not safeguarded. The eternal significance of personal morality is not respected. A loving Father in Heaven has provided us with the means to bring His spirit children into this world to fulfill the full measure of their creation. He has instructed us that the wellsprings of life are to be kept pure, just as the beautiful spring on the ranch required protection in order to sustain life. This is one of the reasons why virtue and chastity are so important in our Father in Heaven’s plan.
Because of my grandfather’s reaction to the polluted spring, improvements and protections were undertaken which returned the spring to its original beauty and purity. …
… We are aware that there are those who have already engaged in conduct inconsistent with this sacred standard of morality. Please understand that through the Savior’s Atonement, all can repent and return, like the spring of water, to a clean and pure state.

Growing up in Ghana, my journey through high school was fraught with obstacles.
Most high schools at that time required tuition, and my family struggled financially. My uncle graciously offered to support my education, allowing me to move in with him and continue my studies. However, financial difficulties were common, and my uncle could not always cover my fees. Failing to pay led to me being sent home, which unfortunately became my reality multiple times, along with other punishments.
In the midst of my struggles, I often felt disheartened as I watched other children with better opportunities. Yet these challenges became the backdrop for a transformative experience in my life.
While living with my uncle and his family, they introduced me to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They devoted time each week to home evening, scripture study, and daily prayer. After a year of attending church and seminary with them, at the age of 17, I made the sacred decision to be baptized.
Years later, while attending Sunday School, I learned about patriarchal blessings and felt an urgent need to receive one. The patriarch, Joseph William “Billy” Johnson, was a respected disciple in the Church community and was among Ghana’s first converts. I traveled two hours to request my blessing and returned a month later with an open heart to receive it.
During the blessing, I was overwhelmed as the patriarch spoke personal insights that resonated deeply within me, revealing a connection to my life that only God could know. I felt His love and assurance that I had a purpose. Each subsequent reading of my blessing emphasized God’s intimate knowledge of me and the divine work I was meant to accomplish.
I came to realize that God is deeply interested in our lives, that we are His children (see Romans 8:16) and have a divine purpose. This realization inspired me to keep my patriarchal blessing at the forefront of my mind, reminding me of the commandments and promises associated with it. My patriarchal blessing motivated my decision to serve a mission. This experience profoundly transformed my life, and I witnessed the blessings that the patriarch pronounced upon me materialize throughout my service.
Upon returning from my mission, I was determined to follow the path laid out in my patriarchal blessing. Every step I took was guided by my faith in the promises I had received and my desire to see them fulfilled. I knew if I obeyed God and tried to live the way He wanted me to, He would guide me. Despite difficulties during college, I felt Heavenly Father strengthening me and leading me along.
To those struggling with education or navigating hardships (particularly in Africa), I empathize with you. I have walked that path. I understand the weight of uncertainty, but I implore you: Do not give up. The Lord is ever present, ready to assist you despite the trials you may face. As the Savior taught, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
Help may come from unexpected sources—be it family, friends, or Church leaders—and I testify that the Lord inspires others to support His children. It’s essential to maintain faith in yourself and the potential that lies within you. With hard work and determination, you can overcome your circumstances.
My patriarchal blessing, a personal Liahona for my life, continually reminded me to look forward to better days. In Alma 37, the Liahona is described in such a beautiful way: “It did work for [Lehi’s family] according to their faith in God” (verse 40). This shows how our patriarchal blessings can guide us if we maintain our faith in the Lord’s promises.
While not all blessings may be realized in this life, we can have hope that some will manifest, and our faithful pursuit of righteous desires will lead us toward joy and fulfillment.
Throughout my journey, I’ve learned that while life may not always be straightforward, trusting in Heavenly Father’s plan leads to personal miracles. When confronted with obstacles, I leaned into this truth and became fortified by faith. When we act in faith and make wise choices, the Lord prepares a path for us. Each time I felt overwhelmed or uncertain, I remembered this promise and was reminded that faith is key (see Matthew 17:20).
In moments of doubt, I often find myself reflecting on the encouragement found in reading my patriarchal blessing. It inspires me to press forward, knowing that every effort made in faith will not go unnoticed by the Lord.
When we keep our hearts open to inspiration, we will find that God is constantly providing opportunities for growth. As we conduct His work and build His kingdom, we are not alone.
As I continue to embrace the guidance found in my patriarchal blessing, I remain steadfast in my commitment to follow the Savior. As we move forward together, I encourage you to hold fast to your blessings and the hope they represent. Our patriarchal blessings serve as divine reminders of our worth and potential in the eyes of God.