Gospel Story Finder

Limerick, Republic of Ireland—
Do you ever get really impatient with your parents? I suppose everyone does at some time in their life. But my friend Sharron Coyle and I learned that being patient and following the commandments is really the only way to go.
Our parents were responsible for our first encounter with the missionaries—they invited them into our homes. Although our parents weren’t interested in their messages, Sharron and I were, and we took the discussions from the sisters. We were so impressed and knew they had the happiness and peace we’d been looking for.
We’d been brought up Roman Catholic, but neither of our families were practicing, so we didn’t foresee any great difficulty in our joining the Church.
We were wrong. When we asked our parents for permission to be baptised, they refused, point blank, to even consider the thought.
For a while we fought with them continuously, but then we realized that fighting wasn’t going to get us anywhere. We stopped fighting and just went on living the gospel, hopefully changing our parents’ minds by example.
The church was about seven miles from our homes, and since we didn’t drive and Sharron didn’t have a bicycle, we walked to and from church for meetings and activities. Hail, rain, or snow, we walked. Our parents thought we were mad, but we didn’t give up.
Soon we noticed subtle changes in our parents. They were friendlier towards the missionaries, and the negative talk about the Church stopped. We believed that the missionaries and the members, with their persistence, good deeds, and polite attitudes of respect, were beginning to help turn our parents around.
Then one day, much to my surprise, just before the results from my final exams were due out, my mom said I could be baptised! It was several months before my 18th birthday. Not long after, Sharron’s mom gave her permission too.
Both of us now more fully understand 1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7]. We believe that the Lord truly provided a way for us to do his will. We know that we developed strength from our trials, and we’re grateful for the support our parents ended up showing us. It just took time, following the commandments, and the patient support of the missionaries and members.
And now my little sister Sinead wants to join. Here we go again!

During World War II, my widowed mother supported her three young children on a schoolteacher’s salary that was meager. When I became conscious that we went without some desirable things because we didn’t have enough money, I asked my mother why she paid so much of her salary as tithing. I have never forgotten her explanation: “Dallin, there might be some people who can get along without paying tithing, but we can’t. The Lord has chosen to take your father and leave me to raise you children. I cannot do that without the blessings of the Lord, and I obtain those blessings by paying an honest tithing. When I pay my tithing, I have the Lord’s promise that he will bless us, and we must have those blessings if we are to get along.” … The law of tithing and the promise of blessings to those who live it apply to the people of the Lord in every nation. I hope our members will qualify for the blessings of the Lord by paying a full tithing.

The second experience that inspired me to speak on this subject comes from a former student in one of my classes. With his permission, I share some of his observations regarding some BYU-Idaho students who have not chosen to "stand united in tribute to the living prophet." Although my friend began attending BYU-Idaho in 2008, for financial reasons he soon had to leave school to provide for his family. During that time, he worked long hours at a very demanding job, stayed active in the Church, magnified his callings, and was diligently striving to follow the teachings of the living prophets. Through those years, he observed the following:

"I would follow friends [from BYU-Idaho] on Facebook and watch ... as they were able to finish their degree and go on to their desired career fields. Then I saw something else happen. Many of them ... after leaving this cradle of the gospel at BYU-Idaho, would start to wander. I watched as they started to make posts online or comments in conversations regarding their opposition to some of the statements put out by the First Presidency. They would always reference the more complex issues pressing us today. I could literally watch as my brothers and sisters that I knew here at BYU-I, who [were active and] legitimately and truthfully happy, let their testimonies decay and rot.... [T]hey allowed their own finite, misled though well intended, personal opinions [to] blind them to the divinity of the calling of the Prophet. As this would happen I would see them become negative, spiteful, and angry, [always seeking other sources to justify] their own erroneous way of thinking and why the Prophet, the very mouthpiece of Jehovah, was incorrect, outdated, or discriminatory...."
He then shared the following about his experience returning to this campus seven years later to finish his degree: "I see the same people I saw before, just with different faces. I have heard these young [students] make comments that are the seeds of apostasy.... I ... want to beg and plead with them to hold tight to the Iron Rod, which is not just the Book of Mormon, but every word of God spoken by the mouth of His prophets....
"It can be hard to see a Prophet [who] was raised in a different era and truly believe that he can grasp the issues at hand today; but he does, more than we do. Well it would be with us to take into consideration the commandment 'Seek not to counsel your God' (D&C 22:4) and to 'murmur not because of the things which [we have] not seen' (D&C 25:4)."[3]

Before joining the Church, Elder Helio da Rocha Camargo from Brazil was a minister in another religion. He was seriously investigating the Church when he visited a youth meeting one Saturday morning. He was interested in what the young people of our Church had to say. One young lady bore her testimony about being morally clean and the strength she had received from living the law of chastity. Her testimony and the testimony of others greatly impressed Helio Camargo. He and his wife joined the Church. Brother Camargo’s testimony and commitment were great. The Lord called him to be a bishop, a stake president, a mission president, a regional representative, a member of the Seventy, and a temple president.

Not long ago, the wife of one of our grandsons was struggling spiritually. I will call her “Jill.” Despite fasting, prayer, and priesthood blessings, Jill’s father was dying. She was gripped with fear that she would lose both her dad and her testimony.
Late one evening, my wife, Sister Wendy Nelson, told me of Jill’s situation. The next morning Wendy felt impressed to share with Jill that my response to her spiritual wrestle was one word! The word was myopic.
Jill later admitted to Wendy that initially she was devastated by my response. She said, “I was hoping for Grandfather to promise me a miracle for my dad. I kept wondering why the word myopic was the one he felt compelled to say.”
After Jill’s father passed on, the word myopic kept coming to her mind. She opened her heart to understand even more deeply that myopic meant “nearsighted.” And her thinking began to shift. Jill then said, “Myopic caused me to stop, think, and heal. That word now fills me with peace. It reminds me to expand my perspective and seek the eternal. It reminds me that there is a divine plan and that my dad still lives and loves and looks out for me. Myopic has led me to God.”
I am very proud of our precious granddaughter-in-law. During this heart-wrenching time in her life, dear Jill is learning to embrace God’s will for her dad, with an eternal perspective for her own life. By choosing to let God prevail, she is finding peace.

War on the European front had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of hate and destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s city on the Danube, Vienna the beautiful, lay largely in ruin.
Prized public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the Opera, and the Burgtheater were virtually destroyed. In the city where the Strausses played their waltzes, where Mozart and Beethoven performed The Magic Flute and the Eroica Symphony, where the Fine Arts Museum housed the Hapsburg collection of paintings by the old masters, it was a time for starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food and clothing were scarce, water purity uncertain. Nearly 270,000 Viennese were homeless. Bombed out buildings hovered like specters over potholed streets. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t venture out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family, over in the Russian sector.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we crossed the bridge over the Danube, I was impressed that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here. Pull over to the side,” and I did.
He leaned out of the jeep, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears evaporated. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was okay.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the cobblestones, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we pulled the jeep in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The daughter’s excitement was apparent. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in dire circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
It seems strange to say we feasted on salmon loaf and artificial orange drink, but feast we did. And more than food, we feasted on love and companionship. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was 40 years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s, the Opera, and the Burgtheater, all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind floods with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.

Anders had a new cap. His mother had knit it for him, and he thought no one could ever make anything quite as nice as his mother! The cap was red except for a small blue section in the middle and a blue tassel.
All of Anders’s brothers and sisters thought the cap was beautiful, and he wanted everyone else to see and admire it too.
One day he put the cap on and went for a walk. The very first person he met was a farmhand, who was walking beside a cart loaded with wood and driving his horse. When the man saw Anders’s new cap, he bowed so low that he was almost bent double. Anders was pleased, but he only nodded as he walked by.
At the turn of the road Anders met the tanner’s overgrown boy Lars, who was wearing a pair of fine high boots and whittling on a stick with a bone-handled jackknife. Now when Lars saw Anders’s beautiful cap, he stopped whittling to admire it. And he could not keep himself from going up close to Anders to touch the handsome blue tassel.
“I’ll trade you my cap for yours,” he cried, “and my jackknife besides!”
Lars’s knife was a splendid one, and Anders was sure that having a jackknife would make him feel manly. But still he would not give up the cap his mother had made even for the knife. So he nodded goodbye to Lars and went on his way.
Soon after this Anders met a strange little lady. She curtsied to him until her skirts spread out about her like a balloon. “Lad, you look so fine in your cap that you could wear it to the king’s ball!” she declared. Then why don’t I? thought Anders. Wearing this cap, I am certainly properly dressed to go and visit the king.
And off he went.
Two uniformed soldiers with guns on their shoulders and shining helmets on their heads were guarding the palace gate.
“Where are you going?” one of the soldiers asked.
“To the king’s ball,” answered Anders.
“No, you are not,” challenged the other soldier. “No one can go to the king’s ball except in formal dress.”
But just at this moment the princess, dressed in a white gown with ribbons of gold, was out walking. She overheard the guards arguing and went to see what the commotion was about.
“It’s true this boy is not formally dressed,” she said, “but his elegant cap is enough. Let him in so he can attend the ball.”
Then the princess took Anders by the hand and walked with him up the broad marble stairs, past all the soldiers who stood on every third step, and through the long, magnificent halls where gentlemen and ladies in silk and velvet were waiting for the ball to begin. And wherever Anders went, the people bowed to him. Such attention is all because of my cap, thought Anders, nodding to each one as he passed.
At one end of the largest hall a table was set with long rows of golden plates and shining goblets. Pyramids of tarts and cakes were heaped on huge silver platters. The princess seated herself at the table and motioned for Anders to sit in a golden chair by her side.
“But you must not eat with your cap on your head,” she said and reached over to remove it.
“Oh, but I can eat just as well with it on,” claimed Anders, holding onto the cap with both hands.
“Please give it to me,” begged the princess, “and I will give you a kiss.”
The princess was beautiful, and Anders would not have minded a kiss from her, but he was afraid she would not give him back the princely cap that his mother had made. So he only shook his head and moved farther back in his chair. Then the princess filled his pockets full of cakes, put her own heavy gold chain around his neck, and bent down and kissed him.
At that moment the doors were opened and the king himself entered, accompanied by his attendants in glittering uniforms. The king wore a mantle of blue velvet, bordered with ermine, and he had a large gold crown on his head.
When he saw Anders in the golden chair, he smiled and said, “That is a very fine cap you are wearing.”
“Yes it is,” Anders agreed. “My mother knit it herself from the very best yarn, and now everyone wants to get it away from me.”
“But surely you would change caps with me,” said the king, lifting the sparkling jeweled crown from his head.
Anders did not say a word. But when the king came close to him, holding his gold crown in one hand and reaching for the beautiful cap with the other, Anders leaped from his chair. Like an arrow he darted out of the hall, through the palace, down the stairs, and across the courtyard. He ran so fast that the necklace the princess had given him fell to the ground, and all the cakes tumbled out of his pockets.
But he still had his cap! With both hands he clutched it tightly until he was home.
“Well, Anders, where have you been?” cried his mother, startled.
So he told her the surprising things that had happened to him, while his brothers and sisters stood and listened, their mouths open in amazement.
When his older brother heard how Anders had refused to give his cap in exchange for the king’s golden crown, he cried out, “Anders, you foolish boy! Just think of all the things you might have had after selling the king’s golden crown! Besides, you could have bought yourself a much finer cap, one with a feather instead of just a tassel on it.”
“I was not foolish!” Anders declared. “I could never have bought a finer cap, not even in exchange for a king’s crown. I could never have bought anything in all this world half so fine as the cap my mother made for me!”
And his mother smiled at him lovingly and kissed him.

Humility is a word we hear a lot about, but do we really understand what it is? I don’t believe I did until one morning years ago when I saw humility in a hotel entrance. I was sitting in the entrance of the Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City. From my soft chair I observed with great interest the comings and goings of people through the front door of the hotel. The longer I sat there, the more crowded the entrance became. People were moving in and out, bumping into each other in their haste, then exchanging irritated glances as they hurried on. I couldn’t help thinking how unconcerned we are for others as we move about pursuing our individual goals.
The very next person who came to the door of the hotel provided a real contrast. Elder George Q. Morris of the Quorum of the Twelve, a man in his 80s, reached for the door and held it open for several minutes while others hurried through without so much as a nod of thanks. When there was no one else waiting, he walked into the entrance. He removed his hat and nearly had it knocked out of his hands by a young woman who was in too big a hurry to even notice whom she had bumped into.
I watched Elder Morris for at least six or seven minutes as he made his way across the entrance, always stepping aside for others, at the same time expressing a “Pardon me” or “Excuse me, you go first.” Several times he stopped completely while others rushed by. If people were in his way, he would wait patiently until they stepped aside or moved on without ever realizing he was waiting to get by.
I am sure there was no one in that entrance with a busier schedule or more on his mind than Elder Morris. I have thought since that it would have been more appropriate (if less true to life) had everyone stepped aside for an Apostle of the Lord.
Some of the true marks of humility—kindness, consideration for others, and an awareness of their aims and needs—are often forgotten in our involved pursuits. I have always appreciated more deeply those who manifest the little kindnesses since seeing humility in a hotel entrance.

Truly, Joseph Smith’s life was characterized by extraordinary charity—lifting up hands that hung down and strengthening feeble knees. William W. Phelps, a member of the First Presidency and Joseph’s intimate friend and confidant, left the Church and became a traitor to the cause of Zion, an enemy who brought enormous injury and irreparable damage to the Saints and to the Church. Robbed of peace in the Lord, he wrote a letter to Joseph Smith, humbly seeking reconciliation. Here is part of that letter:
I . . . ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me. . . .
. . . I ask forgiveness . . . of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet. [HC 4:142]
Here is part of Joseph Smith’s letter in answer:
Dear Brother Phelps: . . .
. . . We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. . . .
However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, be brought into the liberty of God’s dear children, and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. . . .
”Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
For friends at first, are friends again at last.”
Yours as ever,
Joseph Smith, Jun.
[HC 4:162–64]
Reconciliation. How marvelous its power. How sweet its blessing.

As a boy, I learned a great lesson of faith and sacrifice as I worked on my grandfather’s farm during the terrible economic depression of the 1930s. The taxes on the farm were unpaid, and Grandfather, like so many, had no money. There was a drought in the land, and some cows and horses were dying for lack of grass and hay. One day when we were harvesting what little hay there was in the field, Grandfather told us to take the wagon to the corner of the field where the best stand of hay was, fill the wagon as full as we could, and take it to the tithing yard as payment of his tithing.
I wondered how Grandfather could use the hay to pay tithing when some of the cows that we were depending upon to sustain us might starve. I even questioned if the Lord expected that much sacrifice. Ultimately I marveled at his great faith that somehow the Lord would provide. The legacy of faith he passed on to his posterity was far greater than money, because he established in the minds of his children and grandchildren that he loved the Lord and His holy work more than earthly things. Grandfather never became wealthy, but he died at peace with the Lord and with himself.

A young sister reported her observations of the first Christmas in the Great Salt Lake Valley as follows:
“I remember our first Christmas in the valley. We all worked as usual. The men gathered sagebrush and some even plowed for though it had snowed, the ground was still soft, and the plows were used nearly the entire day. Christmas came on Saturday. We celebrated the day on the Sabbath, when we all gathered around the flag pole in the center of the fort, and there held meeting. And it was a great meeting. We sang praise to God, we all joined in the opening prayer, and the speaking that day has always been remembered. There were words of thanksgiving and cheer. Not an unkind word was uttered. The people were hopeful, and buoyant because of their faith in the great work that they were undertaking. After the meeting, we all shook hands with each other. Some wept with joy, the children played in the enclosure, and around the sagebrush fire that night, we gathered and sang:
‘Come, come, ye Saints,
No toil nor labor fear,
But with joy, wend your way.’
(Hymns, No. 13.)
“That day we had boiled rabbit and a little bread for our dinner. Father had shot some rabbits, and it was feast that we had. All had enough to eat. In the sense of perfect peace and good will, I never had a happier Christmas in all my life.”

We often hear that love can heal all wounds, but I didn’t know just how true this was until I lived it.
For years, my family struggled to find a place to belong. My two boys were diagnosed with autism and ADHD at a young age, and due to their uncontrollable and often disruptive behavior, many people weren’t understanding of their situation. In my home country of Japan, 98 percent of the population is Japanese. In any area with low diversity, it can be difficult for society to accept those who are even a little bit different.
When my children were young, I tried to enroll them in preschool. I began applying to schools in the area, but with each application, I encountered the same difficult response: as soon as the staff met my sons and found out about their condition, we were informed that the school no longer had any openings. Eventually a facility in a neighboring town welcomed us, but this was only after we were rejected by every preschool in our city.
It was incredibly painful.
Riding public transportation wasn’t much easier. Sometimes, when I would scold the boys for making too much noise on the train, they would act out, causing strangers to tell me that I was being abusive. Other times, I would restrain myself from quieting the boys out of fear of how they might react, only to have other passengers tell me that I was being neglectful.
I even had social workers insist that I place one of my children in a semipermanent facility, with contact only once every two years, because they believed I’d never be able to raise two children with autism and ADHD as a single mother. However, having personally experienced the pains of a difficult childhood—my parents divorced when I was a toddler and for various reasons weren’t able to care for me—I was determined to do my best to give my sons the deep love that every child deserves.
Several years ago, I attended a work seminar, and I noticed that some of the seminar leaders would fold their arms and bow their heads before eating lunch. These people are usually so nice, I thought to myself. Why are they in such a bad mood whenever they sit down to eat?
I quickly learned that they were praying—not sulking—and I couldn’t help but ask more questions about their faith. They were overwhelmingly kind and had such a unique spirit about them, and I yearned to know more. I learned that they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we quickly accepted their invitation to attend church with them.
Due to his autism, my younger son was afraid of being in large groups and meeting new people, but the ward welcomed us with open arms and did everything they could to accommodate our needs. The members set aside a special room at the back of the chapel just for my son, and they fulfilled our request to avoid making eye contact with him until he felt more at ease. Even when one of my children would disrupt sacrament meeting, we were treated with the utmost respect and kindness.
I saw my sons unfold in the warmth of the ward’s embrace. They quickly made new friends, and my sons even started to attend Primary classes on days that I was unable to attend church.
We were eventually baptized, a memory that still brings tears to my eyes. At the baptismal service, the ward members—understanding my children’s fear of crowds—tiptoed into the back of the room after the boys had been seated to avoid frightening them. Afterward, we were offered a mountain of congratulatory sweets, and the love in the room was so palpable that my sons remarked, “I want to be baptized again!”
I have nothing but gratitude in my heart when I think about the deep love demonstrated by the members in our ward—a love that ultimately allowed us to find the light of the gospel. The ward perfectly encapsulated what it means to have our “hearts knit together in unity and in love one towards another” (Mosiah 18:21). My family was truly blessed by the kindness of these welcoming Latter-day Saints.
It’s now been two years since my sons and I were baptized. Both of my sons have been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, and I’ve seen an incredible change in their demeanors.
I’m grateful for the many caring individuals who accepted my family and who helped my sons overcome their fears through the power of love. I’m grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, through which even the deepest wounds of prejudice can be healed. And above all, I’m grateful for a loving Heavenly Father, who prepared a way for my family to find peace and belonging, even when I couldn’t see what that path would be.
I’ve learned that as we make room for our differences, we make room for greater love. Each of us is a beloved child of heavenly parents, and as we remember this truth, we can all—no matter where we are or who we are—become one in Christ (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:27).

All of us have had the experience of noting in the countenances of people the effects of sin. It is obvious—it can be observed—and it is heartbreaking. A few years ago my wife and I had the privilege of serving a mission in Texas. As we returned from visiting a stake in the eastern part of that state, we stopped at a café for lunch. We took places in a booth and began to order our meal, but were annoyed by the conversation in the booth next to ours. In that booth was a very ugly and very dirty woman. The smoke billowed around her, her language was foul, and her treatment of the people who were attending her was very abusive. It became so annoying to us that we decided to leave; but as we were getting up to do so, she left. She was in a wheelchair, apparently crippled. Since she had gone, we settled back and finished our meal. When it was over we went up to the register to pay the bill and were shocked to see her behind the counter; she owned the place. As we paid the bill we looked behind her and saw on the wall a lovely, almost life-size portrait of a very beautiful young girl. We studied that picture as we waited for her to give the change, and I noticed a similarity between her eyes and the eyes of the girl in the painting. I asked the old woman if the picture was of her, and she replied proudly that it was indeed a picture of her during her youth. In questioning her further, we discovered that she was somewhat near my wife’s age. But it was heartrending to note how her beauty had been spent and lost through sin. It was obvious that she had abused her divine mintage and that she was bogged down with sin.

The class was dismissed. Boys and girls gathered their books with their usual youthful chatter. They left the seminary building singly or in groups, their eyes and interest focused on their next activity.
Alone now, I slumped rather wearily into my chair at the front of the classroom, perhaps a bit discouraged and certainly distraught. Today had been especially trying. I had played center stage in a recurring scene with Dennis.
He had challenged nearly everything I had said about the gospel. He had resurrected for reexamination some questions I thought we had put to rest in previous discussions. Several times he had skillfully forced me into a position where I had to take a stand. I had once again borne testimony to the truth of the eternal principles I was teaching and had added my own personal witness.
Now, sitting at my desk, I began to wonder if on some things I had been too firm, too dogmatic. Certainly, I had taught the Church position supported by scripture, by the Brethren, and by my own personal experience. But had I been so firm that youth could not accept? Would I lose boys like Dennis or girls like Alice who sometimes took his part?
I was prayerfully pondering this question as I began straightening my desk at the front of the classroom. John, one of the students, stopped by to collect some books he had left behind.
“How ya’ doin’,” he said.
“Fine John. How are things with you?”
“Great! I enjoyed your class last period, even if Dennis did lead us away from the lesson for a while.”
John was a little cautious as he framed his next question. “Does it bother you when he challenges what you say and takes the negative side?”
I quietly admitted that it did but that my real concern was my apparent inability to reach Dennis and convert him to a more positive attitude of faith in the Lord’s teachings.
John smiled. “I thought you felt that way,” he said. “Let me tell you something about him.”
“Dennis has many friends who are not members of the Church. He seems negative here in class, but when he gets over to high school, he becomes you! The arguments he gives in class are the arguments he gets from his friends. The answers you give him are the answers he gives back to them. He’s just storing up ammunition.”
John picked up his books and smiled a good-bye. I sat down again at my desk, smiling. Suddenly everything fell into place. When Dennis asked questions in the future, I would understand. I would be glad to help him find answers.
Then a fear swept over me. What if I had faltered? What if I had compromised? I would not have won Dennis over—I would have betrayed him and I would have betrayed the sacred trust of being his teacher.
It was the Apostle Paul who said, ““If the Trumpet Give an Uncertain Sound”, who shall prepare himself for battle?” (1 Cor. 14:28.) We don’t blast the trumpet in someone else’s ear, but neither do we indiscreetly sound its message; rather, the call should be sweet and sure and certain of sound.

Another element of the vision is the concluding pinnacle of achievement—the erection of “beautiful temples.” This is a remarkable statement because at that time the only operating temples were the St. George Temple (1877) and the Logan, Utah Temple (1884). Moreover, note that this reference to temples is in the plural. The decision to build the first temple in Idaho in Idaho Falls was made in 1936. At that time, the construction of temples was largely financed by the local members. In the 1930s, the United States was, as you will recall, in the midst of the greatest economic disaster this country has ever experienced. We now refer to it as the Great Depression. This was not a particularly opportune time for the local farmers, ranchers, and small businessmen in the area to raise the money to build a large, beautiful temple on the banks of the Snake River. But they persisted in the face of great economic obstacles, laying the cornerstone in 1940. The construction of the temple was then delayed when the United States entered World War II, an epic world-wide struggle against the dark forces of Fascism and militarism. However, by the conclusion of the war, the Idaho Falls Temple was dedicated in September 1945 by President George Albert Smith as the then eighth operating LDS temple.

The dedication of the Idaho Falls Temple was not only in partial fulfillment of Elder Woodruff’s vision, it was also a beacon of light and hope to a war torn world and the harbinger of the many temples that would be built around the globe.

Joseph F. Smith was 19 when he returned from his mission in Hawaii. As he traveled from California to his home in Utah, he was confronted one morning by a “wagonload of profane drunks … , shooting their guns, yelling wildly, and cursing the Mormons.” One of the drunks, “waving a pistol,” came toward him. Although Joseph “was terrified, he felt it would be unwise and useless to run … , and so he advanced toward the gunman as if he found nothing out of the ordinary in his conduct. ‘Are you a ——— ——— ——— Mormon?’ the stranger demanded. Mustering all the composure he could, Joseph answered evenly while looking the man straight in the eye, ‘Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.’ Almost stunned by this wholly unexpected response, the gunman stopped, dropped his hands to his sides, and, after looking incredulously at Joseph for a moment, said in a subdued tone, ‘Well, you are the ——— ——— pleasantest man I ever met! Shake. I am glad to see a fellow stand for his convictions.’ So saying, he turned and walked away.”

First, be the servant. We witnessed an amazing example of Christlike love and humility when Ron and I were assigned to a Priesthood Leadership conference with Elder Gerrit W. Gong. Between meetings, a light luncheon was provided for several leaders and spouses who were involved in the conference. As is typical with presiding authorities, Elder Gong and his wife, Susan, were invited to the buffet table to be first in line. Instead of picking up a plate for himself, Elder Gong picked up all the plates and began to hand one to all who came through the line, greeting them one by one with his gentle smile. While Elder Gong was on plate duty at one end of the table, Sister Gong filled cups with drinks at the other end. They saw an opportunity to humbly and joyfully serve, and their simple actions made each person feel important and appreciated.

Ron and I will never forget the humble, covenant leadership we witnessed that day from Elder and Sister Gong. I hope we will remember that, most often, it is the small kindnesses we share that make the biggest difference in the hearts and minds of those we serve.

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.
My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

With the continued help of Mirian, coupled with Luiz’s assistance, we baptized nearly 25 people in this neighborhood in a period of six weeks. I’ll always remember the time we decided to talk with those who had harassed Mirian so badly before. As if nothing had happened between them, Mirian helped teach these families, several of whom became converted to the gospel.
I was transferred not long after this and shortly thereafter was shocked to learn that Mirian had died of complications following a ruptured appendix. Yet as sad as that was, she had accomplished a great mission. Because of her deep faith in the Lord and his powers to protect, Mirian had overcome her fear of her fellowmen and had helped to teach the gospel to those who had physically scarred her for life. Many of them now revere her name for forgiving them and bringing them the gospel of Jesus Christ. Looking back now, I realize that one of my great missionary experiences in Equador was to see the true spirit of member-missionary work in action.

Tom and Joan (names have been changed) had both lost their spouses. Tom’s wife had passed away from cancer, and Joan’s husband, because of addiction, had left for other relationships. Tom and Joan met at a singles conference and were looking forward to marriage.
Each of them had children, age 15 and under. Their families had been on several outings together, and both Tom and Joan could see potential problems in blending the families. They came to counseling for some ideas on how to communicate in healthy ways to navigate this new chapter of their lives.
I suggested they review the message on family councils by President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Children desperately need parents willing to listen to them,” he taught, “and the family council can provide a time during which family members can learn to understand and love one another.”1
For their family councils, they decided on the following agenda:
Define the problem.
Brainstorm solutions.
Choose a plan.
Put it into action.
Evaluate the success of the plan the next week and renegotiate the plan if necessary.
In addition to counseling together as a family, Tom and Joan learned that when relationship stress is high, there can be a need to learn how to improve one-on-one communication as well.
Tom and Joan learned several techniques that helped them improve their communication and their relationships with their children.
The parents stood together in finding solutions to problems with the children.
If a child had difficulty completing their daily tasks, one of the parents would spend time with them, discussing the day while they worked to complete the tasks.
They spent time each week deepening their relationship with every child.
They established ahead of time that they would take time-outs when the “emotional” brain (yelling) took over from the “rational,” solution-focused brain (discussion).
Whenever there was a power struggle between parent and child, the parent, when impressed to do so, withdrew and came back later to brainstorm a new solution.
As the family did their best to approach challenging relationship issues in faithful, healthy ways—communicating about their challenges and working through them together—Tom and Joan recognized important growth in their children as well as themselves.