Gospel Story Finder

We moved into the Ogden Fourth Ward in the fall of 1937. As a home teacher (then called a ward teacher), I was assigned an old home that had been converted into ten apartments.
One December evening, while making the ward teaching visits, I noticed a trailer house south of the apartments. Not sure it was included in any ward teaching district, I wondered if the occupants of the trailer had been visited. I decided there was only one way to find out.
A blue-eyed, blonde woman answered my knock and explained that the family was not Latter-day Saint. She said they had recently moved from Kansas. I took a few minutes more to quickly explain the program of ward teaching.
Her reception was so kind that I briefly related the story of Joseph Smith’s First Vision and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. I suggested that she might like to read the book if she had a copy.
“Yes, I think I would,” she replied.
At first I intended just to loan her the book. But when I was home and took a copy from the shelf, I decided to make the book a gift to the woman, Maxine Protzman, and her husband, Paul. I wrote on the inside cover a few words of encouragement to study the book. Then I carried the book to the Protzmans’ home.
Church assignments soon took me elsewhere. Years went by. The incident faded from my mind.
Fifteen years elapsed before I was reminded of it again. My wife and I were attending our dancing club when during intermission, I noticed a blonde woman looking steadfastly at my wife. Finally, the woman spoke. “You don’t know me, do you? “she asked. My wife responded, “No, I’m sure I don’t.”
“Well, I know your husband,” the woman said. “He’s the one who is responsible for first bringing me the gospel.”
I broke in, “I’m sure you’re wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever met. …”
“Isn’t your name Morrell Clark?” she asked. With astonishment I replied, “Yes, it is.”
She continued: “Every time I see that Book of Mormon, I see your name in it, and your reference to the promise it makes to those who read it with a sincere heart.”
I began to remember the trailer, ward teaching, and the Protzmans. They had read the Book of Mormon I left, and had begun attending ward meetings. Stake missionaries taught them about the gospel, and the family joined the Church. Later they moved to North Ogden, where they built a home and became strong, active members in their ward.
What started that change in their lives was simply a few extra steps. That spiritual prompting that brought me to their door and that testified to them of the Book of Mormon brought them into the Church.

The Hunk. That’s what his friends called him. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt; his blonde, naturally wavy hair curled back from his tanned, intelligent forehead; and his teeth dazzled when he turned to smile. When he walked by, girls oohed and whispered in admiration and the guys backed up in awe.
Today would be the Hunk’s day of glory. Single-handedly he would sweep the state track tournament, bringing in dozens of trophies for Riverview High, along with numerous offers of scholarships to prestigious colleges for him. Then, on to the Olympics where he’d have gold medals draped over his muscular chest and crowds cheering and calling his name.
“Dexter! Dexter!” called his mother. “Pay attention or you’ll be late for seminary. Julie is out honking for you, and I need you to bring in some more sugar from the storeroom before you go.”
Dexter looked up at his mother, who was canning pears, and pushed a straight, dark lock of hair away from his glasses. He grabbed a sack of sugar, but it was too heavy to carry, so he set it on the floor, then scooted it across to where his mother stood by the stove. He grabbed his books, then ran out to where Julie, a classmate and neighbor, was waiting in her family’s beat-up station wagon.
Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.
The youth genealogy class had started. Sister Barton had handed out pedigree charts. The Hunk walked in, arms loaded with notebooks and files.He dropped them before her and stated, “This is my genealogy research. I have recently added 15,000 names after having mastered 12 foreign languages. Notice the coat of arms and the royal lines that run throughout. And I have revolutionized data gathering using my new program. This computer disk now contains four million new names I’ve researched.”
As he drew the disk from his briefcase and casually dropped it before the instructor, the class gasped in amazement, and Sister Barton, hands to her face, stared in awe and reverence.
“Dexter, Dexter,” Sister Barton’s voice pierced his mind. “Here’s your family group sheet. Now put down what you can.”
Dexter replied, “I don’t even know where my grandfather was born,” as he pushed the sheet away.
“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

Even in rich nations little children and youth are impaired by neglect. Children growing up in poverty have inferior health care and inadequate educational opportunities. They are also exposed to dangerous environments in their physical and cultural surroundings and even from the neglect of their parents. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland recently shared the experience of an LDS police officer. In an investigation he found five young children huddled together and trying to sleep without bedding on a filthy floor in a dwelling where their mother and others were drinking and partying. The apartment had no food to relieve their hunger. After tucking the children into a makeshift bed, the officer knelt and prayed for their protection. As he walked toward the door, one of them, about six, pursued him, grabbed him by the hand, and pleaded, “Will you please adopt me?”8

In high school I became involved with a young man my family did not approve of. Eventually, because of their opposition, I became hostile toward my siblings and hateful toward my parents. Unfortunately, I was convinced that they didn’t know what was good for me; only I knew. How could they be so opposed to my boyfriend? Yes, he said awful things to me sometimes. But I believed he hurt me because he loved me. I felt that no one else really cared about me.
Being in an abusive relationship altered my emotions and perceptions. I was angry at everyone one moment and disappointed in myself the next. I stayed away from church, eluded everyone who really loved me, and avoided anything spiritual, especially good music. I was hurting, though I wouldn’t admit it.
As I was struggling with my life and everyone around me, my violin teacher asked me for help. She was the Primary music leader in her ward, which was planning a sacrament meeting featuring songs by the Primary. My teacher asked if I would be willing to play violin accompaniment on a few songs. I didn’t want to, but I said yes. When she handed me the music, I looked through the titles. The last piece was “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
I was not thrilled because I knew the power of music. I began practicing the songs anyway, while doing everything I could to repel the Spirit—from thinking of how much I hated my family to trying to keep the songs out of my mind when not practicing.
When the Sunday for the program finally arrived, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. During the program, I tried to ignore the Spirit, but when it came time for the closing song, my violin teacher did something I wasn’t expecting. She turned around and invited the congregation to join in singing.
I placed my bow on the violin strings and struck the first note. The Spirit hit me with such force that tears began streaming down my cheeks before the end of the second line. The Spirit told me to listen to the lyrics and remember that I was a child of God, would always be special to Him, and did not need an abusive boyfriend. I needed Him.
The sound of all those voices—young and old—singing the hymn’s simple words helped me hear and understand His words, the words of my family, and the words of Church leaders. Music was my weakness. Heavenly Father knew music was the way to my heart. I was the one who needed to change, not my family.
The Lord knows and understands the power of music (see D&C 25:12). It can lift us and open our hearts and minds to the Spirit. I will always be grateful for music and the spirit it still brings to my life today.

“I need you to watch your brother,” Mama said. “Your pa and I are going to help someone who is sick.”
I looked up from sweeping the floor of our small house and nodded. Mama was the Relief Society president, and she often went to visit sisters in our ward.
“Thank you, Arlyn,” Mama said, kissing the top of my head. “John’s asleep. And there’s bread dough rising on the counter. Please don’t touch it.”
I watched through the doorway as she and Pa rode the wagon down our dusty road. I felt proud that Mama trusted me.
As I swept the kitchen, I stopped to look at the bread dough. I could hardly wait for Mama to bake it tonight. Usually we ate the fresh bread with homemade jam. But we had run out of jam three months ago.
Jam! The thought made me hungry for something sweet. I glanced up at the sugar jar, high up on the shelf. I knew Mama was saving it to make more jam.
But the more I thought about the sugar, the hungrier I felt. Finally, I pulled a chair up to the counter and reached up. My fingers just barely touched the jar of sugar. I pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf. …
And then the jar slipped right off the shelf! I tried to catch it, but it fell with a loud plop right in the middle of the bread dough. Sugar spilled all over the bread and counter and onto the floor.
“Oh no!” I yelled. That woke my baby brother up. He started crying. I wanted to cry too. What would Mama say about this mess?
After I got John calmed down, I did my best to clean up the sugar. I pulled the jar out of the dough and washed it. I wiped the sugar off the counter and floor. But there was nothing I could do to get the sugar out of the dough.
I thought about putting the jar back on the shelf. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice it was empty. But I knew that wasn’t right. So I set the jar on the table and waited for Mama and Pa to come home.
When they got home, Mama noticed the sugar jar right away.
I took a deep breath. “I just wanted a taste of sugar. But I knocked the jar off the shelf. I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t get it out of the bread dough.” The words rushed out as I looked down at the floor.
Mama was quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Mama let out a sigh. “Well, I guess the bread will be extra sweet tonight,” she said. I looked up. She gave me a little smile. “Thank you for telling us what happened.”
As we ate the sugary bread that night, Mama and Pa and I talked about honesty.
“We all make lots of mistakes in life,” Pa said. “But when we are honest and try to repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy. We will always be blessed for being honest—even if it seems harder at first.”
I was still sad that I had spilled the sugar. I knew we probably wouldn’t have as much jam this year because of my mistake. But I was glad I had told the truth. That was a sweet feeling no amount of sugar could give.

It was hot enough, Laura Jo imagined, to turn even a lizard belly-up in the sun. And the rocks in front of her rose higher than one of her Uncle Walton’s tall tales. But Laura Jo didn’t want to stop until she had scrambled down the other side of the butte so that she could leave her confusion and hurt feelings behind her at the schoolhouse on the flats below.
She knew that at twelve years old she couldn’t run away from her problems. But she was sure that if she could put some space between herself and her grievance—that at the moment being Sarah Greely—she could perhaps at least calm down about not being asked by Toby Dunlap to share his box lunch at the school picnic.
Maybe I sometimes wear old clothes, she thought as she followed the little crooked path up the steep slope, but that doesn’t mean I’m poor in the head! She made her way down the other side of the red-rock ridge to the big lightning-split cottonwood alongside Yellow Bird River. It was quiet there, as quiet as a prayer, just as a secret place should be.
Now, as Laura Jo gazed into the deep green water that glinted in the daylight, her disappointment seemed as deep as that river. Most of the kids were oblivious to her affliction by now—she was just another classmate to them. But Toby Dunlap was a new boy at school. In fact, today was his first day. It might have been the first time that he had seen gold ringlets as eye-fetching as Laura Jo Walker’s, because she was the one he had first approached to share his box lunch with.
That was before he knew about Laura Jo’s harelip. He tapped her on the shoulder, and halfway through his asking her if she would lunch with him at the picnic, Laura Jo turned around. Toby stopped, stared at her, then stated awkwardly that he suddenly remembered that he had already asked someone else.
It was only because Sarah Greely happened to be passing by, Laura Jo knew, that he ended up sharing his lunch with her. Still, Laura Jo had felt more unwanted than bad news. She leaned forward now and eyed her reflection in the inlet pond and for a moment wished that the girl looking back at her was someone other than Laura Jo Walker.
The sudden appearance of another face looming over hers in the water gave her a start. Then just as quickly she relaxed. It was Bishop Cole. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a smile as big as a wasteland sunrise, and the latter, the girl’s father said, went on forever.
“Sorry if I startled you, Laura Jo,” he said kindly. “It appears that you and I have a liking for the same spot.” He leaned his fishing pole against the trunk of the old cottonwood and set his creel on the ground.
“I didn’t know that you like to come here, too, Bishop Cole.”
The tall man with the forever smile sat beside her, pushed back the brim of his hat, and squinted across the deep, wide ribbon of green water. “Almost as regularly as the sun coming up in the morning!” Then he added, “Well, at least once or twice a week. Bishops are pretty busy you know.”
Laura Jo nodded. “Do you come here to fish?” she asked, not able in her low mood to think of anything more sociable to say.
“That I do, honey,” Bishop Cole returned. “And to think.”
“So do I—to think that is.”
Bishop Cole beamed. “It must mean that Heavenly Father put enough quiet here for both of us.” He regarded her for a long moment, and his look shifted to one of quiet concern. “Is there anything that I can help you with, Laura Jo? Behind those beautiful green eyes I detect a look that’s more out of sorts than a bee in a poked hive.”
“It’s that easy to tell, huh?”
“It’s part of a bishop’s calling to be able to sense those kinds of things.”
Laura Jo’s bottled-up emotions started to seep out of her eyes. She brushed at her tears and found a release in the bishop’s listening ear.
Late afternoon shadows were creeping out from behind the buttes when Bishop Cole pulled a pocket watch from his vest and checked the time.
“I’m sorry, Bishop Cole,” Laura Jo apologized. “I’ve taken too much of your time.”
“Not any more than I’ve taken of yours.” he reassured her. “I was just wondering if school is out yet—we don’t want your folks worrying about you.”
“It only takes me a half hour to walk home from school, bishop.” She stood up and brushed herself off. “It’s not any farther from here if I take that path over there.”
Bishop Cole stood up too. “Why don’t I take it with you, young lady? I’ll walk you home.”
“I’d like that.” Laura Jo beamed, then hesitated. “But you didn’t even get to fish yet.”
“One doesn’t always have to aim for rainbow trout to have fished. It just so happens that today I went fishing for the whys of a certain young lady’s fretting.” He pointed toward the little red-rock path skirted with spatterings of sego lilies as he added, “And I didn’t do too badly. Between here and your place, I’d like to talk to you about them and about a few of my feelings.” He removed two large sandwiches from his creel. “And maybe you can help me eat all this food my wife packed for me. There’s enough in just one of these sandwiches to last until the Lord’s second coming!”
Laura Jo smiled inside as well as out. Someone was sharing a lunch with her, after all. And not just anyone. Bishop Cole.
That night when Laura Jo brushed her hair before the small wall mirror in her attic bedroom, she smiled at the golden-haired girl looking back. She couldn’t remember everything that the bishop had told her on the walk back to her house that day. What she remembered most—besides the fact that a person is different only to the extent that she is herself and not anybody else, and that real beauty lies in one’s heart and soul—was that Bishop Cole was her friend. And she was his. He had taken time for her. She mattered. She was, he had said, “a precious soul in his eyes, in the eyes of her family, in the eyes of a lot of other fine people—and,” Bishop Cole had then testified, “in the eyes of Heavenly Father.”

I have a brother who was associated with a large university. He told of a student athlete who was an outstanding hurdler. The young man was blind. Rex asked him, “Don’t you ever fall?” “I have to be exact,” the athlete responded. “I measure each time before I jump. One time I didn’t, and I nearly killed myself.” The young man then spoke of the countless hours his father had devoted over the years teaching, helping, and showing him how to hurdle until he became one of the best.
How could this young man fail with a team like that—a father and a son.

Perhaps some of you can relate to a young friend I met while serving as president of a stake that included West Point Academy in the state of New York. He was a bright 4.0 student at the academy. He had been given leave from West Point to serve a mission and was readmitted on completion of his mission—not a common occurrence at West Point. On one of my visits to the West Point Branch he requested some time to talk.

As we talked he told me of how he had deepened his conversion to the gospel as he served his mission. He remembered the feelings and strength of his testimony as he returned to West Point following his mission.

Then he said: “In the two years since my mission I have gradually felt the Spirit slipping away from me. Every day I am associating with other cadets with different values. Their whole focus in life is successfully graduating from the academy. Periodically the honor code is compromised. Nearly every weekend is party time—alcohol and young women. I am hazed and ridiculed because I have refused to join with them.

“President Staheli, I need help. I feel like I am being tossed to and fro on the seas of life and I have lost my mooring. My gospel anchor of the past seems to be giving way to the life of fun and pleasures enjoyed by my colleagues at the academy.”

As we talked it became clear that the magnet of the adversary was gradually but surely drawing him into Satan’s grasp. My young friend had lost his mooring—not because Satan’s magnet had become stronger but because he had not been nurturing and tending to his testimony. He was in the process of losing what he had previously so deeply cherished.

I shall always remember how the precepts of the gospel of Jesus Christ dramatically changed my life. Although my parents were not active in the Church, I always was inspired by the law of tithing. It was a great honor as a young boy to make an appointment with my bishop to pay 50 cents or $1 or $2 tithing—earnings from delivering newspapers, mowing lawns, or cleaning out grocery stores. Little did I know that this simple habit would affect my life’s work.

In 1970, at the age of 32, I was appointed by the president of the United States to oversee the Welfare, Social Services, and Medicaid Program for the entire United States. It was an enormous task for a young man, but I thrived on my new appointment in Washington, D.C., as part of the presidential administration. Several months into that appointment, I received a call from the White House chief of staff, who asked me if I would immediately come to a meeting in his West Wing office. Nervously, I was interviewed for the next two days to determine if I was the proper candidate to become special assistant to the president of the United States and also serve as White House staff secretary. I had to pinch myself several times to realize that here I was, a young man born and raised in southern Idaho, now one of 14 candidates to possibly become one of the president’s right-hand men.

Near the end of the second day, the White House chief of staff looked me squarely in the eyes and asked a most improbable and unexpected question. He asked, “Are you a full-tithe payer in your church?” Yes, he injected the word full.

Without hesitation I said, “Yes, sir, I am. I always have been. It is an honor for me to pay a full tithing to my church.”

He said, “No one here in the White House is a member of your faith, but I know enough about your religion to know if you are a full-tithe payer, you are a person of integrity. Thus I am recommending you to the president to become his next assistant.”

The very next day I moved my offices into the White House. It was a humbling but joyful experience to know that the result of honoring the priesthood and paying a full tithing not only brings the joys of heaven but also, at times like this, can bring the honors of men.

On 4 Dec 2020, Bishop Les Pointer of the Telford Ward, Newcastle-under-Lyme Stake, accepted an award on behalf of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in recognition for its generous support of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council. The award was presented by Raj Mehta, chair and founder of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council, and a town councillor.
Since Bishop Pointer’s call in October 2017, he has led the ward members to work ever closer with the community and other local faith groups. He was invited to become a trustee of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council in April 2020. Admittedly, before the COVID-19 pandemic, it was easier to serve the local community. Despite the pandemic, Ward members have been able to find appropriate and safe ways to continue serving the community throughout 2020. Bishop Pointer was also nominated for an Unsung Heroes Award from the Telford and Wrekin Borough Council, which he accepted on behalf of ward members.

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
1. Matt: Let’s play pioneers.
Mandy: OK. The tree house can be our covered wagon.
2. Mandy: There’s a herd of buffalo!
Matt: I’ll drive the oxen around them.
Mandy: We’d better pray for help too.
3. Mandy: There’s a river ahead!
Matt: We’ll cross it.
Mandy: It looks deep. Let’s say a prayer first.
4. Mandy: There’s a band of Indians!
Matt: We’ll make friends with them.
Mandy: Let’s pray that they’ll trust us.
5. Mandy: It’s time to make camp.
Matt: I’ll gather firewood, and you can fetch water.
Mandy: First, let’s thank Heavenly Father for a safe journey.
6. Matt: Boy, pioneers must have prayed a lot.
Mandy: Pioneers were smart people.

On a cold winter day several years ago, I visited one of the branches in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. It was fast Sunday, and we warmed ourselves in the glow of the testimonies borne in the poorly heated, rented space where we were meeting.
I especially recall the testimony of one sister whose inspired face I can still see in my mind. She was a single mother. She and her one-year-old child lived in the dormitory of the factory where she worked. Economic conditions were not good. Her wages were low and paid irregularly. Despair and then eventual hope in God brought her to the gospel.
Not long after her baptism, she was preparing food for herself and her child when a young woman who lived in the same building said: “I know things are difficult for you. Like me, you are a single mother, earning low wages, with no place of your own to live. There is little hope of a good future for yourself and your child. Like me, you have a gray, dull life. Like me, you fear for your child and the uncertainty of tomorrow. But why are you always smiling and your eyes always shining? Why does joy light up your face?”
The questions made this sister stop and think about the changes that had occurred since her baptism. As she gained faith in Jesus Christ, the fear that had corroded her life had disappeared. The path back to the Father that opened before her had permitted her to have hope, which had led her to baptism and developed within her a certainty of a tranquil and happy future for her small family. By receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, she had received a firm testimony. The false values of the world gradually gave way to the higher values of the gospel, and these higher values became a firm foundation for both thought and deed. She realized that it was precisely these changes that had given her a new outlook on the world. Long-awaited joy and peace had come into her life.

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter to help support her seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure, to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.
Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed, and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 P.M.
I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought, Mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair. Then I thought, I will do them.
I washed the dishes. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. It took about three hours.
Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

Nearly 22 years ago, Debbie and I met with Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. After having extended a call for me to serve as a stake president, he asked if I was prepared to share with him the names of two men who could serve as counselors with me for the next nine years.

I was not prepared. I had not expected to be called. I was young, I had only been a bishop for one year, and I had never served in a stake calling.

Elder Scott expressed understanding and then suggested that Debbie and I kneel in prayer to find an answer. Elder Scott then explained that we would need to hurry since there would be a leadership meeting soon, and he generously gave us 10 minutes.

After kneeling together in prayer, I shared with Debbie the names of two men who had come to mind. With emotion and confidence, she then shared with me that she had felt for the last couple of weeks that these two men would serve in the new stake presidency; she just didn’t know that I would be serving.

Do you see the efficiency? She was already spiritually prepared for my service as a stake president. Knowing of my calling in advance would have just increased her stress level unnecessarily. However, she had been given the names of my counselors since a loving Heavenly Father knew that I would be under some pressure with an apostle in the neighboring room and just 10 minutes to have an answer.

I was raising our children in the Church, but within a few years, our children decided they would rather spend Sundays boating with their dad than attending church with me. I was devastated. One day in 1975 I talked to my stake president and told him that I had decided I needed to leave the Church because it was breaking up our family. He patiently listened and said, “Do what you must, but be sure that your Father in Heaven approves.” So I went home and fasted and prayed. That was the second memorable prayer. The answer that came was the impression that I was the link in the gospel chain for my family; if I broke that link, everyone would be lost. I knew the answer came from God, so I committed to never leave the Church. And I never did.

Baptism Then and Now
Maggie, age 11, and Lily, age 9, were baptized in a font near the place where the first members of the Church were baptized.
Both girls were very excited to be baptized. When it was Lily’s turn to be baptized, she had an interview with her bishop. “He asked me if I had a testimony of the prophet and if I paid my tithing,” Lily said.
The girls both have good memories of their baptismal days. “When I came out of the water, I had a feeling that I could do anything,” Maggie said.
Both girls got journals so they could record their feelings about their special days.

Another story of priesthood service was told a month ago in a ward sacrament meeting. Again, I was there. In this case, the seasoned Melchizedek Priesthood holder didn’t know as he spoke that he was describing exactly what the Lord desires to happen with strengthened priesthood quorums. Here is the gist of his account:
He and a home teaching companion were assigned to serve seven families. Almost all of them did not want visits. When the home teachers went to their apartments, they refused to answer the door. When they telephoned, they did not get an answer. When they left a message, the call was not returned. This senior companion finally resorted to a letter-writing ministry. He even began to use bright yellow envelopes in the hope of getting a response.
One of the seven families was a less-active single sister who had emigrated from Europe. She had two young children.
After many attempts to contact her, he received a text message. She abruptly informed him that she was too busy to meet with home teachers. She had two jobs and was in the military as well. Her primary job was that of a police officer, and her career goal was to become a detective and then return to her native country and continue her work there.
The home teacher never was able to visit with her in her home. He periodically texted her. Every month he sent a handwritten letter, supplemented with holiday cards for each child.
He received no response. But she knew who her home teachers were, how to contact them, and that they would persist in their priesthood service.
Then one day he received an urgent text from her. She desperately needed help. She did not know who the bishop was, but she did know her home teachers.
In a few days, she had to leave the state for a monthlong military training exercise. She could not take her children with her. Her mother, who was going to care for her children, had just flown to Europe to care for her husband, who had a medical emergency.
This less-active single sister had enough money to buy a ticket to Europe for her youngest child but not for her 12-year-old son, Eric. She asked her home teacher if he could find a good LDS family to take Eric into their home for the next 30 days!
The home teacher texted back that he would do his best. He then contacted his priesthood leaders. The bishop, who was the presiding high priest, gave him approval to approach members of the ward council, including the Relief Society president.
The Relief Society president quickly found four good LDS families, with children about Eric’s age, who would take him into their homes for a week at a time. Over the next month, these families fed Eric, found room for him in their already crowded apartments or small homes, took him on their previously planned summer family activities, brought him to church, included him in their family home evenings, and on and on.
The families with boys Eric’s age included him in their deacons quorum meetings and activities. During this 30-day period, Eric was in church every Sunday for the first time in his life.
After his mother came home from her training, Eric continued to attend church, usually with one of these four volunteer LDS families or others who had befriended him, including his mother’s visiting teachers. In time, he was ordained a deacon and began passing the sacrament regularly.
Now let us look into Eric’s future. We will not be surprised if he becomes a leader in the Church in his mother’s home country when his family returns there—all because of Saints who worked together in unity, under the direction of a bishop, to serve out of charity in their hearts and with the power of the Holy Ghost.

Recently my husband, Mel, and I met a volunteer tour guide named Mollie Lenthal as we visited a museum in Australia. We found out that Mollie, a lovely woman in her 70s, has no children and has never married. She is an only child, and her parents have been deceased for many years. Her closest relatives are two cousins who live on another continent. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the Spirit testifying to me, almost as if Heavenly Father were speaking: “Mollie is not alone! Mollie is my daughter! I am her Father! She is a very important daughter in my family, and she is never alone!”
One of my favorite stories from the Savior’s life is the story of Lazarus. The scriptures tell us that “Jesus loved Martha, … her sister [Mary], and [their brother] Lazarus.”1 Word was sent to Jesus that Lazarus was very ill, but Jesus did not come immediately; He stayed away two more days, stating that “this sickness is … for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby.”2
Hearing that Jesus was coming, Martha “went and met him,”3 telling Him what had happened. Lazarus had “lain in the grave four days already.”4 Grieving, Martha ran back to her home to tell Mary that the Lord had come.5 Mary, weighed down with sorrow, ran to Jesus, fell down at His feet, and wept.6
We are told that “when Jesus therefore saw [Mary] weeping, … he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled,” and asked where they had laid him.
“They said unto him, Lord, come and see.”7
Then we read some of the most compassionate, loving words in scripture: “Jesus wept.”8
Apostle James E. Talmage wrote, “The sight of the two women so overcome by grief … caused Jesus to sorrow [with them] so that He groaned in spirit and was deeply troubled.”9 This experience testifies of the compassion, empathy, and love that our Savior and our Heavenly Father feel for each of us every time we are weighed down by the anguish, sin, adversity, and pains of life.
Dear sisters, our Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ, know us and love us. They know when we are in pain or suffering in any way. They do not say, “It’s OK that you’re in pain right now because soon everything is going to be all right. You will be healed, or your husband will find a job, or your wandering child will come back.” They feel the depth of our suffering, and we can feel of Their love and compassion in our suffering.
Alma testified:
“And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.
“And he will take upon him … their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, … that he may know … how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”10
When we wonder if we are known by our Savior and our Father in Heaven or how well They know us personally, we might remember the Savior’s words to Oliver Cowdery:
“If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.”11
Earlier the Savior stated to him, “There is none else save God that knowest thy thoughts and the intents of thy heart.”12
The Savior reminded Oliver that He knew every detail of that pleading prayer—and remembered the exact time, the very night.
Many years ago my husband became very ill with a rare disease. As the weeks went by and the sicker he became, the more I became convinced that he was dying. I told no one of my fears. We had a large, young family and a loving, eternal marriage, and the thought of losing my husband and raising my children by myself filled me with loneliness, despair, and even anger. I am ashamed to say that I pulled away from my Heavenly Father. For days I quit praying; I quit planning; I cried. I finally came to the realization that I could not do this alone.
For the first time in many days, I knelt down and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven, pleading for forgiveness for turning away from Him, telling Him all of my deepest feelings, and finally crying out that if this was what He really wanted me to do, I would do it. I knew He must have a plan for our lives.
As I continued on my knees to pour out my heart, the sweetest, most peaceful, loving feeling came over me. It was as if a blanket of love was flowing over me. It was as if I could feel Heavenly Father saying, “That was all I needed to know.” I determined never to turn away from Him again. Gradually and amazingly, my husband began to get better until he made a full recovery.
Years later my husband and I knelt by the side of our 17-year-old daughter and pleaded for her life. This time the answer was no, but that same feeling of love and peace that our Savior has promised was just as powerful, and we knew that even though Heavenly Father was calling her back home, everything would be all right. We have come to know what it means to cast our burdens upon the Lord, to know that He loves us and feels compassion for us in our sorrows and pain.
One of the sweetest father-to-son moments in the Book of Mormon is Alma the Younger’s testimony to his son Helaman. Alma described the “inexpressible horror” he felt as he imagined coming into the presence of God to be judged of his many transgressions. After feeling the weight of all his sins for three days and nights, he repented and pleaded with the Savior to have mercy on him. He described to Helaman the “exquisite and sweet” joy of remembering his pains “no more.” Instead of feeling “inexpressible horror” at the thought of coming before the throne of God, Alma saw a vision of “God sitting upon his throne” and declared, “My soul did long to be there.”13
Is that not how we feel, my dear sisters, as we repent and contemplate the love, the mercy, and the gratitude we feel for our Heavenly Father and our Savior—that we too “long to be there,” to be embraced by Their loving arms once again?
Just as the Lord has testified to me that He has not forgotten His precious daughter Mollie Lenthal, I testify that He has not forgotten you! Whatever sin or weakness or pain or struggle or trial you are going through, He knows and understands those very moments. He loves you! And He will carry you through those moments, just as He did Mary and Martha. He has paid the price that He might know how to succor you. Cast your burdens upon Him. Tell your Heavenly Father how you feel. Tell Him about your pain and afflictions and then give them to Him. Search the scriptures daily. There you will also find great solace and help.
Our Savior asked:
“For can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. …
“… I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.”14
“I have commanded that none of you should go away, but rather have commanded that ye should come unto me, that ye might feel and see; even so shall ye do unto the world.”15
That is our charge. We must feel and see for ourselves and then help all of Heavenly Father’s children to feel and see and know that our Savior has taken upon Himself not only all our sins but also our pains and our suffering and afflictions so that He can know what we feel and how to comfort us. I testify of Him in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In the early days of the Church, missionaries traveled without purse or scrip. That means they did not take with them any money or other usual items. Instead, they depended upon the Lord to furnish them with food, a place to sleep, and clothes to wear.
While my father was on his mission, he always had a place to sleep and plenty of food to eat. Once, however, he was discouraged because of his shabby appearance and the condition of his clothes. He had walked so far that his shoes had worn through; he had torn his coat and trousers; his shirt was ragged and faded; and low-hanging tree branches had poked holes in his hat. He prayed as he had never prayed before for the Lord to somehow help him get new clothing.
Soon afterward my father arrived in the town that was the county seat. When he went to pick up his mail, he found three letters waiting for him, each containing money. He also met two or three individuals who gave him money. So he went to the store and purchased the things he needed. As the clerk totaled the purchases, the bill came to exactly the amount of money he had received. Father always said, “This was truly an answer to prayer.”

A few months ago I got stuck in the elevator of my apartment building without my mom or brother. I was very afraid. The man who cleans the building found me and helped me get back to my mom. Later, Mom told me that while I was lost she said a prayer to Heavenly Father asking that I would get back safely to her. I am still nervous when I get in the elevator, but I’m more careful, and I know I can ask Heavenly Father for help.