Gospel Story Finder

A patriarch received a call one afternoon from a concerned mother of a young daughter who was physically challenged from birth. This dear mother asked if her daughter could possibly receive a patriarchal blessing. The patriarch informed her that if her daughter could obtain a recommend from the bishop, he was sure the Lord had a blessing for her. A short time later the patriarch was informed that the bishop had given this sweet young girl a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.

An appointment was made. The blessing was given and gratefully received. Her lineage was given. She received a blessing suited to her needs and unique situation. Lives, focus, and attitudes were changed. She was told that through her cheerful acceptance of the efforts and sacrifices of those who loved and cared for her, she would be blessing their lives, and to accept their offerings graciously and willingly.

July 1990: I had come home. I was back in Prague, in my native country of Czechoslovakia—a country I had left twenty-two years before. I left because I couldn’t tolerate the political climate of the time. Now, within a few months, an overwhelming change had been wrought in the country, and I was free to return.
I suppose I expected to feel the same as I had so many years before. But I felt like a tourist. Everything seemed smaller and shabbier, and I felt as though I had lost my family and childhood roots.
But a few days after I had arrived, as I was walking along a crowded street, I suddenly felt a kinship with the people around me. I was among my own people. A great feeling of love and belonging came over me, and I felt the joy of the freedoms that they had gained after forty-five years of strict control.

Some years ago, I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with more than 400 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the doctor prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He advised there was a possibility the patient would not survive the surgery.
The parents came. Late one evening, the father and I entered a hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of the young missionary, and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
The missionary was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of his surgery, the missionary’s bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these men normally ate. She took a tray over to the patient in bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you!”
The occupant of bed number one had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than an injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we shall give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two.”
As she approached that patient, he said, “I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
Each of the five men declined breakfast. The young lady exclaimed, “Other mornings you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat! What is the reason?”
Then the man who occupied bed number six answered: “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church, and while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He continued, “We don’t know much about the Mormon Church, but we have learned a great deal about our friend; and we are fasting for him today.”
The operation was a success. When I attempted to pay the doctor, he countered, “Why, it would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a Power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high literally helped me to perform.”
Such is the house of God.

Once more the missionary discussions began. At the next meeting I finally learned why it was that the missionaries kept refusing when I asked them if they would like a cup of coffee. When they told me they abstained from coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco, my heart sank. I thought to myself, “Now they’re going to tell me they don’t dance, go to movies, cut their hair, and any number of things.” But I was ready to give up whatever they asked. I already knew the gospel was true.
Now we were near the end of the discussions, and the plan of salvation was being presented. I’ll never be able to describe the joy I felt when I was told that I had dwelt with God before—that he knew me and taught me before I was born. You mean he actually knows me? Me? Just think! God knows me! Me! I was overjoyed. I wept. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever hear—that I had dwelt with God before, and that he knew me personally. Now I could easily think of him as a kind Father, a God of flesh and bone.
When the elders were introduced to us, I was very excited. The sister missionaries had told us about the priesthood, and I was in awe of the elders when they came. I felt the greatest respect for someone who held the priesthood of God. It was such a new thing for me. The children loved them instantly.
Yes, we were baptized. We had knelt in prayer and for the first time, self-consciously and timidly, and prayed together vocally. In simplicity and humility we asked our Heavenly Father if these things were true, and, in answer, received the warm, sweet assurances that only the Holy Ghost can bring.
In the many years since our baptism as a family, there have been many joys—yes, and many sorrows too, especially the death of my husband. Yet we have known the security of the priesthood in our home, the comfort of home teachers. We have laughed, sung, cried; we’ve been down to the depths of despair, and up to the heights of spirituality. We have experienced the sweetness of a temple marriage, the meaning of eternal friendships, the strength of the iron rod when all seemed utterly hopeless. We have helped make peanut butter in welfare projects in Texas, and helped to weed beet fields and canned peas in Provo, where we now live with our new husband and father.
Above all, we are truly grateful to be members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and for the missionaries who made it possible. And now we have sent our own David out as a missionary, with the hope that he will find other receptive souls and bring to them the joy and happiness that the missionaries brought to us.

The shouts and laughter of children on the playground filtered through the schoolroom windows. Mayela’s crayon made wide bands of red down her paper over and over again. Red made her feel happy and warm inside, even on snowy days like today.
Briiing! The bell rattled the windows. Mayela shoved the paper into her desk, flopping the lid down just as her classmates poured through the door.
Brittany wriggled into the seat across the aisle. She rubbed her cheeks vigorously. “I made a snow angel on the hill, but it’s no fun playing alone.”
Mayela scrunched down in her seat. She wanted very much to play with Brittany, but Miss Lynn had said that she couldn’t go out for recess until she remembered to wear snow boots to school. The truth was that she didn’t have any—but she was too proud to tell the teacher that. She hadn’t needed them last year in Texas, where she used to live.
The rest of the afternoon seemed to fly by—spelling, a science experiment, writing in their daily journal. When the bell rang again, school was over.
“Mayela, I want to speak to you.” Miss Lynn stopped her on her way out of the classroom. “I hate to see you staying in for recess every day. And I’m concerned about your walking to school and back home in the snow without boots. Please wear them tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll have to call your mother.”
Mayela looked down and nodded quickly.
In the hall, Brittany grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—she’s after me to wear boots, that’s all.” Mayela fought to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
As they struggled into their coats, Brittany said, “I have an idea—you wear one of my boots, and I’ll wear the other until we get to my house. It’ll be fun, and we can see how many times we can hop on our boot foot on the way.”
Mayela remembered this morning’s walk to school. Her feet had been so cold that she couldn’t feel her toes. She smiled gratefully.
She pulled Brittany’s boot onto her right foot. Her foot slid around in the big boot, but it felt warm.
The two girls left school, arm in arm. They struggled to hold each other up as they hopped. By the time they reached the crossing, they were giggling hard.
“What have we here”—the officer stopping traffic grinned— “a pair of frog twins sharing boots?”
The two girls laughed out loud. Blonde Brittany was the tallest girl in class; black-haired Mayela, the shortest.
When they reached the next corner, Brittany said, “Let’s trade boots—my hopping foot is tired.”
Mayela agreed.
Brittany leaned over. “Look at that. Your foot barely reaches my little toe.” She sighed. “It must be nice to have small feet.”
Mayela giggled. “Maybe, but I’ll never grow tall enough to be a model, either.”
“Do you think I will?”
“Sure! Papa says that people are like puppies—they grow to fit their feet.”
The girls parted in front of Brittany’s house, Mayela returning the boot with a heart-felt thank-you. She hurried the rest of the way home to the trailer court.
That night at supper she pushed her rice and beans around on the plate. “Miss Lynn said that I have to have snow boots by tomorrow or she’s going to call you.”
Papa looked sad. “There is no money, little one. You can’t buy things without money. Next payday, perhaps, but not by tomorrow morning. You’ll just have to explain to your teacher.”
Mayela swallowed and blinked her eyes quickly. She felt sobs building inside like black clouds in a thunderstorm.
She woke up the next morning, convinced that it would be the worst day of her life. The overcast sky and sharp wind seemed to confirm her feelings. She had to pick her way through the slushy sidewalk snow. One misstep and icy slush would soak her canvas shoes.
Up ahead, Brittany danced from one foot to another, clutching a brown paper bag. “Hurry up. I’m cold.”
“What’s in the bag? Something for show-and-tell?”
Brittany shook her head. She thrust the bag into Mayela’s hands. “This is for you. I think Miss Tiny Foot can fit into my last year’s snow boots.”
The boots were stained from last spring’s mud puddles, but they looked warm—and they were red!
Mayela hesitated.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Brittany asked. “Friends share.”
Mayela didn’t know if she minded or not. A glance at her friend’s anxious face helped her decide.
She steadied herself by leaning against Brittany who put her arm around Mayela while she took off one shoe at a time and shoved her feet into the pile-lined luxury of the red boots. “Ah, that feels so good!” She wiggled her toes. There was plenty of room inside. “Thank you, Brittany. Your heart’s as big as”—she grinned— “as big as your feet!”

Dylan watched Mom pack her suitcase for her vacation with Dad.
“Tomorrow’s the big day,” she said. “I bet you can’t wait for all the fun things you get to do with Grandma and Grandpa!”
Dylan gave a little laugh. “Yup!” Mom and Dad had been planning their trip for a long time, and he knew they were really excited.
But why did he feel so nervous?
Dylan walked to his bedroom down the hall.
“What’s going on?” he said to his empty room. “Why do I feel like this?” He flopped down on his bed to think. He remembered when he’d first heard about Mom and Dad’s trip. He’d been a little disappointed that he wasn’t going with them.
But then he found out he’d be staying with Grandma and Grandpa. He loved their house! There was the huge old tree in their backyard. Perfect for climbing. There was a closet of games that they loved playing with him. Not to mention Grandma’s famous cookies!
But for some reason, Dylan wasn’t excited anymore. He couldn’t stop picturing the moment when his parents would drive away. They would be so far away for an entire week! What if he wanted to talk with them but they couldn’t answer the phone? What if they forgot about him? He’d never been away from them this long before.
Dylan decided it was time to pray. He slid off his bed onto his knees. He told Heavenly Father all the things he was worried about. “Please help me to feel happy about the trip and to stop feeling so scared,” he prayed.
He felt a little better as he climbed back into bed. He knew Heavenly Father had heard his prayer, but how would He help? Did Heavenly Father even understand what it was like to feel homesick? Then Dylan thought about how Heavenly Father sent all His children to earth. It must be hard to send them away for so long—and so far away too. Maybe Heavenly Father did understand. Maybe Heavenly Father missed him!
Dylan started to feel warm inside. The Holy Ghost was telling him that Heavenly Father loved him very much. He thought about Grandpa and Grandma. He imagined the big hugs they’d give him. That made him smile. He kept imagining those hugs as he fell asleep.
The next morning Dylan felt a little better when he woke up. Something smelled good in the kitchen. Sure enough, Dad had cooked a huge stack of pancakes!
“Those look yummy,” Dylan said.
“Hey, Grandma and Grandpa aren’t the only ones who can make an amazing breakfast!” Dad said with a laugh.
Dylan grinned. He’d almost forgotten about Grandpa’s smiley-faced chocolate-chip pancakes. He didn’t say it out loud, but Dylan liked those pancakes even better than Dad’s. He couldn’t wait to have them again.
The rest of the morning zoomed by. Dylan helped carry the suitcases out to the car. He put on his backpack and double-checked that he had his favorite books.
Pretty soon they were pulling up to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Grandma waved from the front porch.
“Dylan!” Grandpa called out from the doorway.
Dylan jumped out of the car and ran to them. Grandma and Grandpa gave him the biggest, longest hug in the universe. Thank you, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Thank you for helping me not feel so afraid. Maybe a week wouldn’t be too long after all.

Each one of us has a short window of opportunity to learn to yield our hearts to God—that is, to use mortality to become more like our Savior by learning to love others as God and our Savior love us. To illustrate this I will share one last story.

I knew a man who lived in Sugar City, Idaho, when the Teton Dam broke in 1976. I heard the story from one of his friends, and I spoke with him some years ago before he passed away to confirm its truthfulness. I share it with you to illustrate how a man can come to love God and yield his heart to Him—can give God his agency, so to speak, because he only wants to do what God would want him to do and not what he himself would want to otherwise do.

In 1974 President Spencer W. Kimball had asked members of the Church to fix up our homes, our barns, and our yards.16 President Kimball told us that nonmembers of the Church would judge the truthfulness of the Church by how well we took care of what we had been given, which, by the way, I know to be true. After President Kimball had given the Church this counsel, my friend was out in his front yard one morning painting his fence and planting petunias with his wife. He had painted his barn the week before. His family had about 40 acres of land, and they were raising their seven children with the help of 40 milk cows. You get the picture.

A neighbor stopped in front of his home. The neighbor asked my friend what he was doing painting his fence and planting those flowers in his front yard. My friend kindly reminded his neighbor that President Kimball had asked us to fix up our homes and our yards. He then said to the neighbor that he wanted to be obedient.

My friend’s neighbor chided him a bit, saying, “Painting your barn and fence and now planting those flowers—that’s not going to increase your milk production any.”

My friend simply said something like this: “You are probably right, but President Kimball has asked us to do it and I want to do it.”

Within two weeks the Teton Dam broke and more than 200,000 acre-feet of water came down the Snake River Valley, destroying virtually everything in its path.17 I don’t know if you can envision what more than 200,000 acre-feet of water is like. It was a wall of water about 10 feet high and seven miles wide. Thinking of it more like an engineer, it’s 200,000 acres of land covered with more than one foot of water, or one acre of land covered with a column of water more than 37 miles high.

All of my friend’s milk cows died. His barn was severely damaged. His house was mostly destroyed. The fence in front of his home—the one he had been painting just a few days before—was gone, not to mention the petunias.

A few days after the flood, my friend saw his neighbor—you remember, the one who chided him a bit for fixing up his place. Only this time he said, “Aren’t you sorry now [with a certain spin on the word now] you took that time to paint your barn, fix your fences, and plant those flowers?”

My friend Marion hesitated for just a moment and then said, “No, they were ready to be taken.”

My friend had learned to use his moral agency in his window of time wisely. By his obedience to a prophet of God he was preparing himself to be taken—preparing himself to stand in front of our Heavenly Father with a character more like our Heavenly Father and our Savior Jesus Christ. This too is your opportunity and mine, brothers and sisters.

The best part of our walk that day wasn’t riding in the shiny red wagon that Grandpa had given me for my birthday, even though it was lots of fun. And it wasn’t the snowflakes making polka dots on my blue coat and pants. The best part was when Mama stopped the wagon in front of Mr. Tanner’s pet shop.
Mr. Tanner’s window was full of frisky puppies. I got out of the wagon and pushed my nose against the cold window. The puppies ran to me and tried to lick my nose through the glass. Mama and I laughed.
“Oh, look, Cassie!” Mama exclaimed as she pointed. High up on a shelf I saw a cage of fluffy kittens. I waved, but they were busy chasing each other’s tails.
“What’s that?” I asked and pointed to a small ball of gray fur in another cage.
“I can’t tell,” Mama replied, “but here comes Mr. Tanner. Let’s ask him.”
“How’s my friend Cassie today?” asked Mr. Tanner, coming out of his shop. He brushed the snow from my hat. “Did you ever see so many little rascals?” he asked, chuckling. “Sure hope I can sell them all by Christmas.”
“What’s in that cage up there?” I asked, pointing to the gray furry ball.
“It’s a bunny,” he answered. “The last one too. Do you like her?”
Just then the bunny turned and looked at me with her big brown eyes. Her ears stood straight up, and she wiggled her tiny button nose. I wanted that bunny for my very own. “How much does she cost?” I asked.
“Just one dollar,” said Mr. Tanner.
“Oh, Mama!” I exclaimed, delighted. “I have a dollar in my piggy bank. Please, may I buy the bunny?”
Mama hugged me. “We’ll have to ask Grandpa first,” she said. “We’d better go now. It’s snowing hard, and we have a long way to walk.”
When we got home, Grandpa had supper on the table. After we’d sat down and he’d said the blessing on the food, I told him about the bunny in Mr. Tanner’s window.
“Eat your soup, Cassie,” he said. “It’ll warm your tummy.”
“Grandpa,” I said, “I have a dollar.”
“Drink your milk,” he said, filling my cup.
I love my grandpa a lot, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen to me.
“Grandpa!” I said in a loud voice. “Can I please have the bunny? You have Mama to take care of, and Mama has me, but I don’t have anybody.”
“It’s up to your mama,” he said as he buttered my bread, “but I would say no. It’ll just make a lot more work for me.”
So Mama said no. She might have said yes if she didn’t have to go to work every day. Nobody heard me say that I would take care of the bunny.
Whenever Mama and I walked to town to buy Christmas presents, we’d stop and look in Mr. Tanner’s window. Every time, there were fewer and fewer puppies and kittens, but the bunny was always there, and I was glad.
On Christmas Eve Mama and I walked by the pet shop one more time. All the animals in the window were gone. All but one—the bunny. She wiggled her nose, and I blew her a kiss. I wished for the hundredth time that Grandpa would change his mind.
Mr. Tanner saw us and came out of his shop. He whispered something to Mama, and Mama smiled and said she thought it would be all right.
“Cassie,” said Mr. Tanner, “would you take care of this bunny for me tomorrow? The shop will be closed, and it wouldn’t be right to leave her alone on Christmas Day.”
“Oh, yes!” I cried, and I quickly led Mama and Mr. Tanner into the shop. Mr. Tanner put the bunny into a small box with air holes and handed Mama a bag of rabbit food. I got to carry the bunny box all the way home!
“What in the world!” Grandpa exclaimed when he saw the bunny. “Didn’t we say a rabbit would be too much trouble?”
“It’s just for tomorrow,” Mama explained. “Cassie and I will take care of her.”
“I can do it all by myself,” I said.
Grandpa wasn’t so sure and just said, “Hmmmmm.”
I found a bigger box and put an old window screen over the top of it. I put food and water and the bunny inside. After she had eaten, I took her out and petted her and put her back until after supper.
Grandpa wouldn’t even look at her. Well, maybe he did once or twice—but just for a minute. He made a fire in the fireplace and set up our Christmas tree and strung the twinkly lights. Mama helped him hang the ornaments and strings of popcorn while I took care of the bunny.
At bedtime I put the bunny back in the box and left it by the fireplace so she would stay warm. Grandpa took me upstairs and tucked me in.
“Grandpa, can’t the bunny stay?” I pleaded.
But Grandpa just kissed my forehead and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
“Sometimes it’s hard to say no,” he said slowly, “especially to someone you love. Maybe someday, Cassie, but not now. Grandpa has no extra time.”
“I promise I’ll take care of her,” I called, but Grandpa was already downstairs.
Christmas morning I woke up before anyone else and tiptoed downstairs in my nightgown. The lights on our tree blinked on and off, and the room looked bright and sparkly. Under the tree were presents with my name on them, and my stocking, stuffed full and topped with an apple, hung from the mantle. Grandpa was asleep in his big chair by the fireplace. Our afghan lay across his lap. I tried not to wake him as I ran to the bunny box and looked in. The screen was off and the box was empty!
“Here, bunny, bunny,” I called softly, but she didn’t come. I peeked under the furniture. Then I searched all the other rooms, but the bunny was gone. I felt scared, and my heart went bump, bump, bump.
Mama came downstairs. “Cassie, what are you doing?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The bunny’s lost!” I cried. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
Mama hugged me. “She has to be here somewhere.” But even with both of us searching, we couldn’t find her. “Oh, dear,” Mama said. “Maybe we made a mistake bringing her home.”
“What’s all the commotion?” Grandpa asked as he yawned and opened his eyes. “And why the sad faces? It’s Christmas!”
“The bunny’s missing,” said Mama, “and we’ve looked everywhere. What are we going to tell Mr. Tanner?”
Grandpa laughed and lifted the afghan. The bunny was fast asleep in his lap. “You tell Mr. Tanner that he’s sold another rabbit,” Grandpa said. He winked at me, and his whole face smiled. “I tried to tell her that she couldn’t stay, but she does have the biggest brown eyes, doesn’t she?”
I sat on the chair next to Grandpa.
“Cassie,” he said, “Grandpa forgot just how soft and cuddly little rabbits can be. No more pet shop for this bunny. She has a family now, and we’ll all help to take care of her.”
I hugged Grandpa hard, and Mama kissed his cheek. Later, when I opened my Christmas presents, I knew that I already had the best present of all.

I lived in South Africa for a little more than two years. One of the things I learned is the necessity of having a way to help me reach all my daily destinations. I found GPS to be vital. It’s an electronic map that allows me to move around to fulfil my duties, whether they are family related, professional obligations, or my ecclesiastical responsibilities.
Whenever I paid attention to this electronic map, I would reach my destinations on time and quickly return home to my family. But, when I missed a roundabout or a crossroads, the GPS would take me down very long roads and I would sometimes be delayed in getting to my destination—or get completely lost on the way to another unknown destination.

One of the most trying experiences in Spencer W. Kimball’s life was losing his mother, who died when he was 11 years old. He recalled that the news “came as a thunderbolt. I ran from the house out in the backyard to be alone in my deluge of tears. Out of sight and sound, away from everybody, I sobbed and sobbed. … My eleven-year-old heart seemed to burst.”

Even at this young age, however, Spencer knew of the comfort and peace that prayer could bring. During this time of sorrow, a family friend wrote, “My children wept with [my wife and me] as we heard of the prayers of little Spencer and how the loss of his mother weighed so heavily upon his little heart and yet how bravely he battled with his grief and sought comfort from the only source.”4

Years later, I felt that same sense of overwhelm again, but in a very different setting. I was a mother of four young children working on my first graduate degree at the University of Hawai’i at M?noa. At one point, I needed to take a Spanish 202 class, even though I hadn’t taken a Spanish class since 2005, and it was 2019. I felt completely overwhelmed. I remember crying about it to my former Spanish language professor, Elaine McArthur. In my discouragement, I told her I didn’t think I could do it. She looked at me and said something that has stayed with me ever since. She said, “You can absolutely do this. But you will need to do what you can with the time you have.”

That simple phrase changed everything for me. Instead of waiting for the perfect amount of time, the perfect level of focus, or the perfect circumstances—I began to just start. Sometimes I only had five minutes. But five minutes mattered. Five minutes made it easier to come back later. Five minutes helped me move forward when I otherwise would have stayed stuck. I have thought about that principle often since then. Sometimes we think that if we cannot do something perfectly or to the fullest extent, it is not worth doing at all. But that is not how the Lord works. “…And thus we see that by small means the Lord can bring about great things”. [2] Sometimes Come, Follow Me looks like a deep and meaningful family discussion. And sometimes it looks like a single verse, read quickly, but sincerely. And that still matters. That is still a spiritual deposit. That still invites the Spirit into our homes and into our lives. Doing what we can with the time we have is not a lesser offering. It is a faithful one.

I took that fateful Spanish language class day by day, and with the help of my profesoras, tutors, and my Spanish-speaking father patiently getting on FaceTime each day, I completed the class with a good grade and increased faith. I have been able to apply that lesson as I worked on a second master's degree, getting my dream job as a librarian and faculty member at BYU–Hawaii, and facing many challenges that have been presented to our family whether we like it or not.

President Hinckley works hard. I got a telephone call from Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin early one Monday morning. I asked him where he was calling from. He said from his office. I asked, “Why are you calling from your office on a Monday, this is your day off, your Saturday. Besides, you were in Hong Kong yesterday helping to dedicate the temple there.” Elder Wirthlin said that he had returned to Salt Lake with the president late the night before, exhausted, but that he awoke with the thought, “President Hinckley will be at his office by 7!” So, he said, “I got up, dressed, and hurried to my office. I shouldn’t be outworked by President Hinckley!”

Long Bow pushed his way through a tall stand of dried weed stalks. The dry stems rustled together and popped noisily, no matter how carefully he placed his moccasins. It was a difficult place to hunt, but the three rabbits he had taken would be a welcome change from the venison and buffalo meat his family had been eating.
Although the air was still crisp and cold, tightly folded buds marched up reddening tree branches, and the Indian youth rejoiced at seeing tiny green shoots in sheltered places. It had been a harsh winter. The tribe had suffered much illness; many infants and old ones had died.
Long Bow turned his thoughts away from sadness, and he swerved toward a brush pile. One kick should send several rabbits running. He was halted by a sudden flash of light from a hill to his left. When he saw a series of flashes, he was puzzled. His people used pieces of shiny metal to signal, but he could not read this message. Is it an injured brave needing help? he wondered.
The youth left his hunt and started a steep climb up the bluff. Clinging to protruding roots as he searched for toeholds, Long Bow slowly made his way to the summit. He was exhausted by the time he pulled himself up onto level ground.
“It’s a child!” he gasped. “A white child!”
Where he had expected to find an injured brave, a toddler sat near the edge of a precipice, engrossed in playing with something shiny. The strange reflecting glass, unlike anything Long Bow had ever seen, was set in what appeared to be polished silver with a raised floral design. The light was blinding when the sun hit it a certain way.
Long Bow turned to leave. He did not want to get involved with white people, not even a toddler! He had seen the two-day-old trail of a passing wagon train. The girl had evidently wandered away from it.
A squeal of delight stopped Long Bow’s hesitant retreat. The little girl with golden curls had seen him! She rose and ran recklessly over the rocky ground toward the uneasy youth.
“Stay back! You’ll fall!” Long Bow cried, edging away. Instead, the child, who looked to be about two years old, ran even faster, her arms spread wide. Her toe struck a stone, and she pitched toward the edge of the bluff! Long Bow flung himself between the girl and the brink in time to get a strong grip on her long dress as she sailed by.
“What am I going to do with you?” the Indian boy sighed.
The girl sat in his lap, rubbing her tear-stained eyes. “Hungry,” she told him plaintively. The word was strange to him, but the youth understood her meaning. Children were always hungry, and from the dirt on her torn dress, she had probably been lost for more than a day. He searched out a squirrel’s hoard and fed her some hazelnuts stored in it.
Long Bow did not want to take her back to his village, but he could not leave her there to die. “You are going to be nothing but trouble,” he murmured. “If soldiers come, they may accuse my people of stealing you.”
The girl was too heavy for him to carry down the way he had climbed up. He would have to cross the hills and descend by the sloping game trail. It was miles out of his way, but he had no choice. “You see, already you are extra trouble,” he grumbled. But he smiled as the blue-eyed child patted his dusky cheek. He rose, tucked the reflecting glass into his waistband, and hoisted the unwanted charge to his shoulders.
Because he wanted to reach his village before dark, Long Bow loped along less cautiously than he normally traveled. Panic swept over him as the trail curved and he was confronted by a huge grizzly bear and her cubs!
Bears were something the youth knew about and feared. Bears alone were big trouble, and nothing was more dangerous than a female defending her young.
There was no time to retreat. Long Bow raced toward the edge of the bluff as the bear stood erect, growling her rage. The boy knew she couldn’t climb a tree, but there wasn’t one closeby. Their only chance for escape was to go down the bluff to a ledge.
His darting black eyes saw a mass of upended tree roots. The other end of the toppled tree was resting on a ledge! Quickly he dropped the rabbits he had killed, clasped the child in one arm, and began to descend the tree trunk. His heart skipped a beat as the tree creaked and turned slightly under their combined weight. Then the tree began to slide, pulling its roots over the edge of the bluff. Long Bow made a desperate leap for the ledge that the treetop had been resting on.
“We made it!” he murmured shakily, his drumming heart almost drowning out the fierce growls of the bear.
Long Bow pushed the girl into a depression in the face of the bluff as stones began to roll down. He, too, squeezed closer to the bluff as the tree groaned and twisted in the wind, then tore free and crashed down to the valley floor. Now they were trapped on the ledge!
When night came, the youth slept fitfully, keeping the child between him and the wall of the ledge. He shivered from the cold and curled around the girl to warm her. “There is no hope of rescue. We will surely die here,” he murmured, staring up at the stars.
At dawn, Long Bow shared his meager supply of dried venison with the girl. Then he spotted trickles of water dripping down from rocks above the ledge. The youth put several heavy rocks on the girl’s skirt to keep her from falling, then eased his way up far enough to collect precious drops of the water in a hollowed-out rock. How long can we survive? he wondered. If only I hadn’t left the rabbits up on the canyon rim.
The sun was high when Long Bow’s keen eyes saw a group of white men spread out over the valley floor. He was sure that they were searching for the girl. He shouted, but they were too far away to hear him. After a while the men assembled, then slowly turned away from the direction of the bluff. They had apparently decided that further search was useless!
Suddenly Long Bow remembered the flashing light that had first drawn him to the girl. He held the glass toward the sun and rotated the handle. At first no one noticed the flashes. Desperately the youth began to play the light across a deeply shadowed wall of rock in front of the men. The men stopped and stared, then turned, searching for the source. When Long Bow held up the little girl, one man darted ahead of the others, stumbling over the rough terrain.
Later, when he and the girl were safely in the white men’s camp, Long Bow used signs to explain about the flashing light that had brought him to the child. He made bear sounds to show why they had been driven over the edge of the cliff.
As the Indian youth prepared to return to his village, the father, cuddling the napping girl, rose to thank Long Bow again. The man had seen how much Long Bow admired the silver hand mirror, and although the man wished he had more to give Long Bow, it was gratefully given to the youth who had kept his child from certain death.
It was a good gift. Long Bow accepted the mirror with dignity, not realizing that the magnificent signaling device had once been part of a vanity set on a lady’s dressing table.

I had never understood this scripture. Jesus had healed the blind man so that the works of God could be manifest. But what about all those who are not healed? What about my sister with disabilities, who had died when I was a child? What about Cameron, our home teacher’s son who had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair?
As I thought of Cameron, scenes flooded my mind.
We are sitting on our back porch with our home teachers. Cameron is in his wheelchair. He is bearing his testimony, slowly, painstakingly—fighting the obstinate, uncooperative muscles in his face.
“I know God loves me,” he says. “I love God.” It takes much effort, much time before he is finished. My husband, Van, leans forward.
“Cameron,” he says earnestly, “you are improving so much on your speaking. I can understand every word!”
Cameron beams with pride. I see my husband’s tender, compassionate face, and I wonder: Are not the works of God made manifest?
At twelve, Cameron is old enough to pass the sacrament. One of the brethren in our ward has designed and fitted his wheelchair with a special tray. The bread and water are placed on his tray by members of his Aaronic Priesthood quorum.
He wheels to the end of the pew, where a member lifts the tray to partake of the sacrament. Are not the works of God made manifest in that sacred act?
I see Cameron, my sister, and others I have known who have disabilities in mind or body. Others carry them; others are their arms, their legs, their minds. I see these same individuals with disabilities giving others gifts of love and hope.
I see the works of God made manifest for them and by them.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled stop at a mining community named Mt. Isa. As we entered the small airport at Mt. Isa, a woman and her two children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my two children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared lessons and bore testimony.

Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly the loudspeaker announced a thirty-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has just been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to The Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.

We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.

Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had made on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow.”

One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and muffled sobs and marked by the sight of tears streaming from every eye.

I had the strangest feeling when the whole family left for church without me. My mother and father didn’t make half the fuss I had expected when, just before time to leave, I announced, “I don’t want to go to meeting today.”

“Oh!” Grandma said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not, are you sick?” Mama asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’m sick of listening to long, boring talks.”

“Well, sounds as though we have only a part-time Mormon,” Papa remarked.

“I am not a part-time Mormon,” I protested. “I’m one all the time.”

“Your testimony sounds a bit shaky to me,” Papa responded.

“What does a testimony have to do with going to church anyway?” I asked.

“Everything,” my sister Laura chipped in. “If a person knows the gospel is true, she tries to do what she’s supposed to.”

“You’re preaching,” I objected.

“What will you do while we’re in church?” Mama asked.

“I’ll play with Joyce and Joan and their cousins.”

“Church is out by five. You can play with them after that,” Mother suggested.

Everyone was looking at me like I had two heads. I was annoyed. Couldn’t I be different just once? I knew plenty of kids that didn’t have to go to church, and their parents didn’t go either.

“If we wait until after church, we can’t finish our hut down by the river,” I explained.

Shaking her head, Mama sighed, “So Papa is right. We do have a part-time Mormon in the family.”

Feeling hurt, I asked, “How come?”

“Just think it over,” she answered.

And off my family went to church without me. I almost ran after them as they passed through the gate, but then I overheard Laura say, “She won’t really miss meeting. She’ll catch up with us before we reach the corner.”

Well! I’ll show her, I thought.

To prevent my weakening, I changed quickly into my old sweat shirt and jeans. Already Joan and the others were calling for me over the picket fence.

I had a strong urge to shout, “I’m not going.” Instead, I met them at the gate.

Usually going to the river was exciting, but today it wasn’t. There was still time to change my mind and attend church with my folks, for they always left early. While I stood, debating, Joyce asked, “Well, what’s bothering you? Did your old cat die or something?”

“Of course not, silly. Come on, let’s go,” I answered decisively.

I didn’t feel much like talking, so I ran ahead, making the other girls race to catch up. When we came to the river, we were winded.

The river! Big deal! I thought. It’s nothing more than a trickle through sand and rocks, and I thought it would be so great!

The sun was sizzling hot, my clothes were sticky, and a rock was in my shoe. Suddenly Joyce wailed, “Oh, look! Someone has caved our hut in.”

Sure enough! All our hard work of cutting and placing tamarack branches was wasted. The hut was a wreck.

Discouraged, I plopped down against a boulder in the shade of a black willow, shaking the gravel out of my shoes. A gnat that wouldn’t be shooed away buzzed my ears.

“Who wants a tamarack hut anyway?” I snapped.

Indignantly, with hands on her hips, Joan stood before me. “Look! Something is bothering you. What is it? You’re the one who thought the hut was so important.”

“Ah, I’m all right,” I said. “I just have some thinking to do, OK? Why don’t you all forget about me and go have some fun?”

“C’mon, let’s let the old potato sit and stew,” Joan urged. “The last one in the river is a mud turtle!”

There was a scramble as the girls pulled off their shoes and stockings, and I was left alone.

I sat and thought, If I need a testimony, I’d better do something about it. All my life I’ve heard people get up in church and say what they’re thankful for. Being thankful is important. Our Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to bless us if we weren’t thankful. But a testimony must be more than that. I thought hard.

When Joseph Smith went into the woods to pray, he saw the Father and the Son. So he had a testimony. He knew Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Hot as the day was, that thought made my skin prickle, and I shivered.

In Sunday School we had talked about an angel of God coming down and showing the gold plates to the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So of course they had testimonies.

But I had never seen an angel or seen a light or heard a voice from heaven. So that’s probably why I was in this sorry state, sitting in the dirt against an old lava rock in my grubbiest clothes, while my sisters sat in church in their crisp pink and blue dresses beside Papa, Mama, and Grandma. Then like a bolt, the thought struck me! None of my family has seen or heard anymore than I have!

I learned back against that boulder ready to cry. I wanted a testimony too! “Please help me, Heavenly Father,” I prayed.

Gradually, a sweet, sweet feeling swept through me. Why, I did have a testimony. I had always had one. If I knew Joseph knew and that the Three Witnesses knew that Jesus Christ was the Son of our Heavenly Father—then naturally I knew too. How wonderful! Tears trickled down my gritty cheeks. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered.

I ran to the riverbank where my friends were playing. “Hey, everybody, c’mere,” I called excitedly.

“Well, look who’s come alive,” Joyce said. Eagerly they came.

“Come on, let’s go home. This is no way to spend Sunday,” I told them.

Timidly one of the cousins said, “Mama and Papa would never let us do this at home.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And we’re not coming to the river anymore on Sunday. We’ll fix that hut tomorrow.”

“Then the hut matters?” Joan asked.

“Sure it does. Tamarack huts are important.”

The family was already home when I got there. I hurried and scrubbed away my disgrace. No one paid any attention to me except Mama. “Did you have a good time at the river?” she asked.

“I suffered,” I answered.

The following Sunday was fast day, and I had been saving a surprise all week for my family. I was the first one at the pulpit when it was time to bear testimonies. I knew exactly what I was going to say.

But when I looked down at the people, their faces blurred. I was scared. My heart pounded and my throat was dry. I couldn’t remember one single word I had planned to say. Lying on the pulpit was a slip of paper with the title of the closing song, “I know That My Redeemer Lives.”

Tingling from head to toe, I took a deep breath and said, “Oh, how very much I know that my Redeemer really and truly lives.” Tears began to sting my eyes. Fearing I might cry, I could only add, “in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Reaching my seat again, I squeezed in between Laura and Papa. His big brown hand closed over mine and his smile was broad and warm.

Four-year-old Christopher sat by the window and watched the wet January snow pelt the glass. “Jingle bells, Jingle bells,” he whispered to himself as he stood up, stretched out his arms, and twirled. He opened and shut his eyes. Blink-blink, blink-blink.
“What are you doing, Christopher?” asked Mom.
“I’m not Christopher. I’m a Christmas tree.”
Mom smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Christmas tree. Are you thirsty? I can put your feet in water if you’d like.”
Christopher giggled. “Oh, Mom!”
Mom laughed too and put her arms around him. “Why do you want to be a Christmas tree?”
“I want to have Christmas every day!” he explained.
“How about if we make Christmas cookies one more time? Would you like that?”
Christopher grinned and ran to the kitchen.
After supper, Christopher sat on his bed and ate a pink-frosted angel. He savored each sugary bite. Finally he licked the last crumb from his mouth and lay back on his pillow.
“‘Away in a manger, no crib for his bed, The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.’” Christopher paused and listened to the stillness. His words sounded kind of empty. He wished it was Christmas Eve again so that he could sing it with his family around the tree.
He left his room and meandered to the kitchen. He got some paper and crayons from the cupboard and sat at the table. “Mom, will you draw a star for me?”
Mom put down her dish towel and drew a big yellow star at the top of the paper. “How is that?”
“Great! Thanks, Mom.”
Mom went back to her dishes, and Christopher covered the rest of the page with tiny golden dots. When it was finished, he smiled. It was just like the star that shined over Jesus when He was born.
He got some tape from the drawer and hung the picture above his bed. “‘Away in a manger,’” he sang. But it still didn’t feel like Christmas.
That night, when the house was dark and silent, Christopher thought long and hard about Christmas. He thought about Baby Jesus and Christmas trees. He thought about candy canes and Wise Men. He thought about presents. Presents! That was it! He could give someone a present. Christopher smiled and sank sleepily into his pillow. He could give someone a present.
The next morning, just before sunrise, Christopher jumped from his bed and ran to his parents’ room. “Mom?” he whispered.
Mom rolled over and opened one eye. “Hmm?”
“How can I earn some money?”
“What? Can’t we talk about it later?”
“Oh, Mom, please? I can’t go back to sleep until I know.”
“Know what?”
“How I can earn some money.”
“Why do you need money?”
“To buy a present.”
“For whom?”
“I don’t know yet, but it will be for someone special. Please, Mom?”
His mother thought for a moment, “I guess you could do extra chores around the house.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
“Now please go back to bed.”
Christopher ran to his room and climbed into bed, but he couldn’t go back to sleep. All he could do was think about his Christmas present.
Every day for a week, Christopher washed walls, made beds, vacuumed, and dusted furniture; and each day he added nickels, dimes, and quarters to his money jar.
Before church on Sunday, his mother helped him count his money and take out enough to pay his tithing. Then she counted it again for him. He had two whole dollars left. “Wow!” she said. “You sure earned a lot of money this week.”
Christopher grinned and slipped the money into his pocket.
“Have you decided whom you’re going to buy a present for?”
“Not yet,” said Christopher, “but I’ll think about it on the way to church.”
In Primary, Christopher’s teacher talked about her mission in Korea. She let the children taste some Korean cookies, and she even let Christopher hold a doll that a Korean child had given to her. Near the end of her lesson, she asked, “Do you know what I liked best about my mission?”
Christopher and his classmates shook their heads.
“Giving the Book of Mormon to people and seeing how it changed their lives.”
Christopher felt her words settle in his heart and grow. He knew about the Book of Mormon, and he loved it too. He wished he could share it with someone, just as his teacher had.
And then he knew what he would do! Excitement tingled through him. He could hardly wait to tell his mother.
“Does a Book of Mormon cost very much?” he asked her after Primary.
“No, why?”
“Do I have enough money to buy one?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “But why? You already have a Book of Mormon.”
“I want to give it to someone—it’s my present.” He stuffed his hand deep inside his pocket and pulled out the money. “Now what?”
His mother led him to the bishop’s office and filled out a donation slip for him. He put the money into the envelope and handed it to the bishop. “Make sure this goes to someone special, please,” he said.
The bishop smiled and nodded.
As they walked out of the office, Christopher whisper-sang the words to “Away in a Manger.” He thought about the star that led the Wise Men to Christ. He even thought about the Christmas lights that looked just like candles blinking on a hillside. But the thought he liked most of all was how he would feel next week, when he had another after-Christmas Christmas.

On a quiet morning last week I left my office in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and walked over to the Sao Paulo Temple site. There was a soft morning mist beginning to clear away. As I walked up the gentle rise in the street onto the site, I noted with great interest and pleasure brush being cleared away and the new pegs recently driven into the ground. These pegs in the ground mark the dimensions of a new temple soon to be erected for the glory of God and the endless blessing of his children in South America. This temple will be different from any other building now standing in South America.
As I stood where the entrance of the temple will be, I recalled how thirty-six years ago my companions and I landed by ship in Santos after twenty-one days at sea and went by train to Sao Paulo. There were other missionaries on the same vessel going to Argentina and Uruguay, which were the two other relatively new missions on the continent.
In all of South America there was but a mere handful of members of the Church, mostly emigrants from Europe, many of whom were converted in Europe. As I stood last week on this site where this new, special, multimillion-dollar building will stand, I recalled how difficult and unpromising the future of the Church appeared in South America thirty-six years ago. In all of our mission we had only three baptisms in one year, despite the conscientious labors of over seventy missionaries. We did not have the Doctrine and Covenants, the Pearl of Great Price, or the Book of Mormon translated into Portuguese. We held our meetings in rooms that were small and unfit for the lofty message we were trying to teach. We often had to sweep out these rooms before meeting to remove the empty bottles and trash from the revelry of the night before. It was always difficult and often discouraging.
In comparison, last year in South America there were over 8,000 convert baptisms. There are now twenty-two stakes and seventeen missions of the Church with over 152,000 members on that vast continent; and the work has only begun. Our great first generation of South American Regional Representatives and stake and mission presidents are men of affairs, including bankers, businessmen, factory owners, and professional men. They are men of great ability and faith.
I marveled at how through the Spirit of God this has all come about. Surely it is a fulfillment of what Jesus said to his early apostles: “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 16:19.) Having seen it all from close range, I cannot doubt that this is the work of God.
What has happened in Brazil has also happened in the other countries as well. The day I was at the temple site, President McAllister of the Bolivia La Paz Mission wrote, “We are still amazed at the growth of the Church since we were here before. When we left in 1967 there were fewer than 300 members compared to our current 8,500.” President Bradford, sustained yesterday as a General Authority, writes from Chile, “For as young as the Church is in Chile, I marvel at the strength and ability of many local leaders.” Surely the keys of the kingdom have been given to our present prophet and to the modern apostles, even as these were given by the Savior anciently.
Last week at the temple site, after much brooding and pondering, I stepped farther back to where the inner rooms of the temple will be. The morning mist had now cleared so that in the distance I could see part of the great city of Sao Paulo. I recalled how as a young missionary I presided over the work in that city, with thirteen missionaries and about 300 members. There are now four stakes of the Church and about 100 missionaries laboring in that city. There are also neighboring stakes in Campinas and Santos.
This great progress in South America has come about largely through the sacrifice and dedication of hundreds of missionaries and their families, as well as dedicated mission presidents from the United States and Canada. This is changing. In the Brazil Porto Alegre Mission there are now 136 missionaries of which fifty-eight, or 43 percent, are native-born Brazilians. All of the four mission presidents in Argentina are native South Americans. How can anyone who has seen what I have deny that this is the work of God.
That morning last week I walked farther on the holy templegrounds. I tried to establish from the ground pegs where the sealings will be. Already it seems to be hallowed ground. In my mind’s eye I could see young couples clean and pure, hand in hand, and with smiles on their faces, many with brown skins handsomely contrasting their white clothing, who will come to this sacred spot to be married under the power of the holy priesthood of God for time and for all eternity. It was easy to imagine the great joy of whole families who will come to that spot to be sealed and bound together under the same authority into an eternal family association through their worthiness. They will come from elevated passes and high plains of the Andes; they will come from the sea coast; they will come from the great cities. On that spot the doors will also be opened to the kingdom for those who died without an opportunity to accept the blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ on this earth. In addition, worthy members will receive the ordinances relating to mankind’s eternal journey and to the endless potential and development of each human soul. This has been provided by a gracious, just, and loving Father for all of mankind, and permits those who have participated in these enlightening ordinances to raise themselves to their highest potential in this life and for all eternity, with an endless association with their families in the presence of their Creator.
With this in mind and with eyes wet with tears, I remembered being told by one of our great South American stake presidents that when he comes to general conference in Salt Lake, he and his wife will have to decide which two of their five children they will bring to be sealed to them in the Salt Lake Temple. It takes forty-three soles to make one dollar. Now their plans have changed. They are planning to take all five children to the first temple in South America. His brother stake president in the same city has never had the privilege of being endowed and of being sealed to his wife and family in a temple.
That morning a week ago on the Sao Paulo Temple site, I walked farther back, still inside of where the temple will be. Having looked at these plans many times, I knew where I was. I have had goose pimples and felt tears almost every time I have looked at those plans. I was now standing where the baptistry will be. Thanks to President Kimball, as in all other temples since Nauvoo it will be a font borne on the back of twelve lifelike oxen representing the twelve tribes of Israel. Here will come the children, full of the mirth and excitement of youth, to perform the sacred ordinances of vicarious baptism for those who have not had that opportunity in their lifetime. It was easy to imagine the pleasure of those coming to be baptized and the great joy of those who have waited so long for this saving ordinance in their eternal journey. I was grateful that Jesus had said to his apostles: “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.” Contemplating all of this I could not doubt that this is the work of God upon the earth.
It was now time to walk on the outside of the pegs in the ground marking the dimensions of that long-awaited temple. I tried to imagine how high the front spire will be. At the same time I tried to contemplate the time when the short, stoic Indians from Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and Paraguay will also come to that spot and gaze up at the same spire. I wondered if some of the men might not admire the fine craftsmanship in the building and compare it with the quality of the workmanship in the walls of the sacred buildings of their forbears, still standing in Cuzco, and Machu Picchu, and many other places in South America. They had their temples also.
These descendants of the Lamanites and others are people with a great past, and with the enlightening power of the gospel of Jesus Christ, they are people with a great future. One of them was sustained yesterday as a General Authority of this church. Recently there were over 8,000 of them assembled in the Plaza de Armas in Cuzco, Peru, to hear the Lamanite Generation from Brigham Young University. Their day is coming soon.
What does this new temple soon to be built in South America mean to the people there? It means great and endless blessings. It also means great sacrifice. President Kimball said recently in Tokyo as he announced the building of the first temple in the Far East, “No temple has ever yet been built that did not require sacrifice and hard work.” (Unpublished, untitled talk delivered by President Kimball, Aug. 9, 1975, p. 12) It takes many pesos, escudos, soles, and cruzeiros, to make one dollar. For instance, last month the faithful members in Chile raised 1,902,178 escudos toward the construction of the Sao Paulo Temple, which is $387.90.
The Spirit of God has been distilled and has rested mightily upon the countries in South America since the time of my youth when missionary work there was so difficult. How does the work of God go there now? Problems—there are many; challenges—they are great, but the progress is almost unbelievable. What I have said about South America can be said of many other parts of the whole world. This is a great worldwide Church, and so far we have only seen the beginning. Having seen what I have seen in South America, I cannot deny that this is the work of God. I invite any who may have doubts, but who are sincere and honest in heart, to inquire further as to what is the generating force behind this great movement. It is the power of love—the love of God, the love of family, and the love of our fellowmen. And because Jesus has again given the keys of the kingdom to a living prophet and modern apostles, this love of family and others can be as eternal as the human soul. Said Jesus to his apostles of old: “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” (Matt. 16:19.)
I testify that it is by these same keys and these same powers that this marvelous work goes forward throughout all of the earth, in the sacred name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.
Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.
As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.
“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”
His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.
“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”
Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?
A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.
Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.
Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.
Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.
Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.
Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”
Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.
Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.
Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”
“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I could feel his love and concern from here.”
Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”
Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

Retired couple, Peter and Phyllis McLennan are helping Tasmanian communities and families by cleaning, painting and restoring markers in cemeteries in the state’s northeast.
Awarded the Australian Citizen of the Year award by the Dorset Area Council, this Scottsdale couple tells how a local cemetery with hundreds of unmarked graves sparked a desire to honor the pioneers who gave life to this Tasmanian community.
The McLennans often visited the cemetery in Scottsdale where Peter’s ancestors are buried. They discovered, through plot maps dating back to the 1850s, hundreds of infants’ unmarked graves in the grassy areas between headstones.
“We thought of the pioneers who had settled their community, forging the path for others to follow. They had no doctors, no services. It was normal for a family to have four or five children who didn’t live more than a year or two,” Peter laments. Yet, here they lay without so much as a marker to be remembered by. “We thought it was sad that these people weren’t recognized.”
The McLennans approached the council, who, in time, saw the validity of the project. “It’s something we do together,” explains Phyllis. With a grant, the McLennans proceeded to create plaques for these plots to mark the graves.
They begin with a concrete paver, onto which is mounted a stainless-steel plaque with the name, birthdate, and death date of the deceased. The pavers are then recessed in the lawn so gardeners can mow over the top. Roger McLennan (Peter’s brother) of the Historical Society comes up with the birth and death certificates to verify the dates.
The McLennans also use their own funds to restore headstones in need of cleaning and repairs. After receiving permission from relatives, they have a system to brighten the lettering to make it legible.
ABC Television recently interviewed the couple about their service to the community.
Phyllis and Peter have worked on this project in six different cemeteries for two years and will continue to volunteer their time and means to this work. “There are a couple more cemeteries further out that need work on headstones.”
Both at age 76, Peter and Phyllis have been members of the Church for nearly 48 years. Phyllis serves as the organist in the Tamar Ward of the Devonport Stake.
“We are very close,” says Peter. “We’ve been told we’re joined at the hip. Not that we have to keep an eye on each other!”
When asked what this project has meant to them, Peter says that they “had the ability, time, and means to do something lasting and important.”