Gospel Story Finder

“I met Natasha at the Sunday sacrament meeting in Moscow,” said choir member Ruth Carr. “She was a convert of six weeks and the mother of seven children. As we talked, I had the strongest impression that ‘I know you. I know you already.’ I checked to make sure she was coming to Monday’s concert. The next night, after the final encore of ‘God Be with You Till We Meet Again,’ she was overwhelmed and was looking for me. When we met she said, ‘God help me find you. I worry I not find you.’ We made arrangements to meet the next day, our second free day of the tour. When we met, Natasha handed me a note that read, ‘Last night I not sleep. I ask Heavenly Father help me speak English tomorrow.’ We spent the entire day together—and as we used the dictionary back and forth through the day, we had a totally delightful time together. At the end of our day of visiting, she said, ‘You my first friend.’ To which I replied, ‘I am just the first of many, many friends you will have in the gospel of Jesus Christ.’”

After completing what I was prompted to write, I returned to bed. I had been asleep only a short while when Bradley, my three-year-old son, suddenly awakened me. “Indians, Indians. I dreamed about Indians,” he said. I was astonished; I felt that his words were an affirmation of my own dream. I was even more astonished when I later asked him about his dream.
“I dreamed an Indian chief came to our house,” he said.
“How did you know he was a chief?” I asked.
“He said he was a chief,” Bradley replied. “He asked me for some bread. I took him to the kitchen to get some. He said, ‘No, not that kind of bread.’”
“Were there other people with him?” I asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “They were waiting for him.”
Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

Van Johnson from Leoma, Tennessee, tells of a personal experience he had in high school.
“Mr. Garner Ezell, my high school football coach, insisted on commitment from his players. ‘I’m committed to you,’ he said in a booming voice, his bushy eyebrows raised as he paced the locker room. ‘If you need me, I’m here.’
“I proved myself on the field, winning the best blocker award in sophomore year. Just before junior year, I made a tackle that left me paralyzed from the shoulders down. What can Coach do for me now? I wondered in the hospital.
“Coach became a regular visitor. He stood by my bedside with my teammates, re-creating games they had played. ‘See you in a few days,’ he said as the team filed out.
“Sure enough, Coach came back. And before leaving, he always said, ‘See you in a few days.’ Coach Ezell made me feel cared about and important. But I wondered how long his concern would last.
“Recently, after a good visit, I listened to Mr. Ezell say from my doorway, ‘See you in a few days.’”
Now he has done that for more than 24 years.
I believe this coach saw clearly, too. He saw that Christlike love involves true commitment. He saw clearly the type of love that the Lord Jesus Christ and our Father in Heaven have for each of us.

Although we were much better off now, there still wasn’t enough food or clothing to go around. It was still cold, it was still stormy, and I still had no shoes. Our company found a ravine that we later named Martin’s Ravine, and we set up camp there. For three days there was a terrible blizzard. It was so cold! Even after the storm ended, we had to wait several days before we could travel over the fresh snow. Although there were now wagons and horses, I walked every step of the way. Only those who had frozen feet got to ride.
We camped at Fort Bridger for a few days of rest. More help came at that time. We kept right on traveling. We reached Salt Lake City on November 30, 1856, eleven months after we had left our home in England. Of the 576 people who had started with our company, about 150 of them had died and were buried along the trail, including my father.

I recall an evening when the family was all at home and we received a request from the missionaries for a visit, but I told them that we weren’t home. Then the elders informed me that they were in front of our home with the mission president. I hung up and immediately opened the door. They taught us about the blessings that await us, how we can face the difficulties in our lives, and that families can be eternal.

Historical accounts of the disaster are sobering. For example, Roy and Veion Cole’s home was knocked off its foundation. It was then skewered by a downed light pole, fully demolishing it. Veion later recalled:

We had the post office on the east of us, and the water went right through their building and took the mail and the mail carts out and put it all in our driveway. The whole side of our street looked like it had been the old channel of the river. All of the houses were off their foundations, and all but two had to be demolished.

The timing was especially poignant, as Roy had just received a total hip replacement and could do little in the cleanup. Things went from bad to worse as he experienced a massive heart attack. Later, though, Veion shared this sweet recollection:

Roy was really appreciative of the six older men from Ogden, Utah, who went into his blacksmith shop and shoveled mud and carried it out in wheelbarrows for two days. He said they were all past 65 years old. They were independent. They wouldn’t let you buy their dinner; they brought it with them. They were members of our church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

As a boy of about 10, I didn’t feel like my prayers were really being answered. Finally I had enough courage to ask my father about it, and he explained that prayer was like a parachute that a pilot puts on when he flies an airplane. He doesn’t go up expecting to need to jump out of his airplane and use his parachute, but he puts it on every time so that when it’s really needed, he has it.
That was enough to help me in my young mind to continue my prayers and charge my spiritual battery. Also, as I watched my father use his priesthood, I gained courage and faith that I could someday do similar things. As time went on, I had experiences that taught me this principle was true. It has been important to continually charge that battery.

Jaden was hungry. “Mama, may I have a candy bar?”
“No, dear. As soon as we get home, I’m going to make dinner.”
Reluctantly Jaden put back the candy bar. As he walked beside the shopping cart Mama was pushing, he looked in and saw spaghetti, peanut butter, cereal, oranges, and lots of other good things. His mouth watered, just thinking about the tomato sauce and cheese that would cover the spaghetti.
His little sister, Anna, was sitting in the cart. She laughed and pulled several packages of spaghetti noodles off the shelf. Mama sighed as she put back all but one package, then returned to reading the label on a can.
Jaden peered at the can. It had a picture of soup on the label. His stomach growled. Mama smiled. She put the soup into the cart and moved on.
At last they finished shopping and headed for the checkout line. The store was crowded with shoppers. Mother glanced at the lines and chose the shortest one. Even so, there were two carts full of food in front of them. Jaden felt hungrier than ever.
He watched impatiently as the clerk scanned boxes and cans from the cart in front of them. Then he got bored and turned to look behind him. An old man carrying a carton of milk and a package of lightbulbs was walking slowly up and down the checkout lines, looking for a short one. He finally got in line behind Jaden.
Jaden smiled at him, and he smiled back. He looked tired. He shifted from one foot to the other, swaying gently back and forth.
Jaden looked at the cart they had filled with food. He was sure it would take a long time to scan it all. He tugged Mama’s sleeve. “Mama, I think that man should go first.”
Mama turned to the old man. “You have only two items. Why don’t you go ahead of us?” The man smiled gratefully, nodded, and went to the front of the line.
While the clerk scanned his milk and lightbulbs, the old man turned to Jaden. “Thank you very much, young man. I heard you tell your mother to let me go first. You are a very kind boy.” Jaden waved and smiled as the man walked out the door. The spaghetti would taste good, but this tasted even better.

True story: Two 14-year-old friends, Scott and Mark, left Scott’s house. They hopped on their bikes and started rolling down the driveway. Scott’s little sister opened the front door and called to her brother, “I love you.” Scott stopped and called back, “I love you too. See you later.”
With practice, it had become easy for Scott to tell his family he loved them. Other teens find it hard to express their love. Fortunately for them, there are plenty of ways to say “I love you” without even speaking a word.

Sarah was the only Latter-day Saint girl in her high school. Despite her isolation she dated often. If she wanted to go out with a young man, she would respond to his invitation on condition there would be no smoking, drinking, R- or X-rated movies, nor immorality of any kind. She always set the tone for her dates.
One day, as she stood at her locker at her high school, the “big man on campus” approached her. In his superior manner he said, “If you would lower your standards a little I would love to take you out.”
Her response to his arrogant invitation is a powerful affirmation of the sweet purity of our youth. She replied, “If I went out with you I would be lowering my standards.”

As Fia returned once again to England, she was befriended by a group of missionaries on their way to Europe. The missionaries took Fia to the mission home with them in Liverpool, England, where Elder Heber J. Grant of the Council of the Twelve presided with his wife and young daughters. Sister Grant found Fia sobbing in the hall as she waited with the elders, who were to be interviewed by their mission president. Through an interpreter, Sister Grant learned of Fia’s unsuccessful attempts to go to Zion. Also discovering that the young girl had no place to go and no money, Sister Grant felt compassion for Fia and asked if she would like to remain at the mission home to work as a maid. Fia gratefully accepted, though she had never had any experience as a domestic servant.
As they became better acquainted, Sister Grant realized that Fia had received a good education and possessed impressive musical talents. In spite of the fact that she had never done housework before, Fia knew how things should be done. She took pride in her work. Her disposition was so delightful that the whole family soon grew to love her. They marveled at her abilities, her patience, and her sweet spirit. They said she never spoke a cross word but always sang and gave praise to her Heavenly Father for the blessings she had received. Along with housekeeping duties, her first responsibility was the care of the two youngest Grant girls, Emily and Frances. Elder and Sister Grant traveled frequently on the continent, supervising the many areas of the European Mission, and they felt fortunate to know their daughters were under Fia’s care.
Fia believed in cold-water “Swedish” baths. Without a water heater in the bathroom, those who wanted a warm bath had to heat the water downstairs and carry it upstairs to the bathtub a bucket at a time, so Swedish baths were much more convenient. Each morning Fia filled the tub with cold water, tying a bag of rock salt to the faucet and letting the water run over it to simulate sea water. The squirming, protesting little girls were then given their morning “dip in the ocean.” After a quick bath, Fia rubbed them vigorously with a large fluffy towel. They said later that they hated their baths, but they loved Fia so dearly they were willing to endure them to please her.

The binding and strengthening power of covenants in our lives became very real to me recently as our dear friends experienced a tragic loss in their family. While Catherine and Kimball Herrod and their four young children, ages nine months to seven years, were driving home from a family dinner at their grandparents’ place, a double wheel from a huge semitruck on the opposite side of the freeway suddenly sprang loose, flew across the median, and pounded into the driver’s side of the family van. Kimball, the driver, husband, and father, was severely injured and unconscious. Catherine somehow guided the car to the shoulder and called for emergency help. While she watched the paramedics work on her husband and two older children, she sat in a police car with her two little ones on her lap and prayed vocally, “Heavenly Father, we know that Thou hast the power to heal Kimball if it is Thy will, but if not, we have faith that somehow Thou wilt sustain us through this.” Kimball was life-flighted to the hospital, but he did not make it there alive.
After the children were treated for cuts, bruises, and other minor injuries, dismissed from the hospital, and safely home in bed, Catherine returned to the hospital to say her final earthly good-bye to her husband. As difficult as it was, she declared to her parents, who were with her, “I know that Kimball and I are sealed by our temple covenants, and we will be together again someday.” In the most terrible trial of a young mother’s life, her covenants sustained her.
At the funeral, we were reminded of the power of covenants to sustain us in moments of distress and grief. As we joined in the closing song, we all heard above the crowd the voice of Taylor, the five-year-old son, loudly singing, “Families Can Be Together Forever” (Hymns, no. 300). It was joyous for the congregation to know that a child had been taught of the sealing covenants that would bind him to his father and mother.
We were also taught the power of covenants in the sermon offered by Catherine’s father. He quoted a scripture from the precious record that Moroni had sealed up and then brought forth to the Prophet Joseph, reminding us that the gospel promises us a rock in the storms and whirlwinds, not an umbrella:
“Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, … it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery … , because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation” (Helaman 5:12).
The profound strength the family exhibited comes from the knowledge that they are eternally bound to each other as a family, and they are bound to Heavenly Father and cannot be separated from Him.

When I was on my mission in Ireland, I was sent with my companion to open up a city called Tralee, which had no members. One day a woman answered her door and surprisingly called us “elders” and invited us in. I noticed she had not looked at our name tags, so I asked her what she knew about the Church. She smiled and proudly told us she was a member but had been inactive for years. I asked her if she still believed, and she told us that yes, she still had a testimony.

When I asked her why she had gone inactive, she explained that she had never been able to break her smoking habit and that every time she went to Church and the members smelled the smoke on her clothes and breath, she was made to feel guilty and unwanted. She then turned her head away for about sixty seconds. When she looked back at us, she had tears streaming down her cheeks. With her lip quivering, she sweetly and humbly replied, “I sure wish everybody’s sins smelled.”

Didn’t Jesus invite us all to come as we are? Didn’t Jesus say, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (John 8:7)? Didn’t Jesus teach us to “leave the ninety and nine and go after [the one]” (Luke 15:4)?

One Sunday morning a recently baptized member was introduced to the ward. Her name was Lydia. She won our hearts at once.
Lydia was older and blind from years of battling diabetes. She quickly came to know ward members by their voices and footsteps. She would say our names and shake our hands, and we never alluded to the fact that she was blind.
After the required year’s wait, Lydia met with the bishop and the stake president to receive her temple recommend. In Relief Society one Sunday, she pulled me down beside her and exclaimed, “The stake president told me I must go to the temple as soon as possible. Will you take me?”
It was the first week of December—busy times were upon all of us. I tried to make the usual excuses and said, “Couldn’t we wait until January?”
“No, we must go now!”
A group of women from the ward went to the temple every month, so I approached them about making the trip with Lydia. They were also very busy. But Lydia, with tears in her eyes, again told us the stake president had told her to go as soon as possible.
At that we all agreed to make the 150-mile (241 km) trip the following week. On the way, we filled the van with the chatter and friendship of eight women. Lydia was overjoyed by her temple experience and the blessing of receiving her endowment.
The first week of January, Lydia’s condition worsened and she entered the hospital for emergency care. A week later she was gone. But Lydia went with the eternal blessings she had received in the temple just a few weeks earlier.
Later I related to the stake president the story of our trip and told him how impressed I was that he had felt prompted to tell Lydia she must go to the temple immediately.
“I really didn’t mean she must go now,” he responded. “I always tell new recommend holders to go to the temple soon. The Spirit spoke to Lydia, not me!”
Lydia taught us all to listen to the Spirit and to act upon it immediately. I am thankful for her reminder to listen to the still, small voice.

The company I was working for closed. I moved to Mexico City, and because I liked to work, I applied for a temporary job with an international editorial company. They wanted me to take an inventory, which was something of a specialty with me. I did the inventory in two weeks. They offered me a permanent job at good pay, and I accepted.
I didn’t speak English at that time. Our director, a man from Texas who didn’t speak any Spanish, said to my boss, “This boy is doing good work. If he knew English, we would pay more. We would send him to New York for training, and he could eventually be a manager here.”
When my boss told me that, I asked, “All I have to do is learn English?”
I was married by then. My wife spoke English because she was born in the Church colonies in Mexico. The first time I tried to speak a few words in English, someone told me not to try. It was not my gift.
Now I was motivated by the thoughts of improving my job position and having opportunities such as traveling to New York. I went to a language school and told them I wanted to learn to speak English as soon as I could.
They asked, “How much do you know?”
I said, “Not a word. Not even ‘Good morning.’”
They said, “We have an intensive course: two weeks, 16 hours a day. Eight hours here with teachers and eight hours in your home with tapes. It costs $1,000.”
I said, “I can do that. I will ask for my vacation, and I can study 16 hours a day for two weeks.”
I went to my boss and said, “I’m going to learn English in two weeks, and you have to pay only $1,000.” He laughed and said, “It is not possible. I learned in two years.”
I told my boss, “Ask the director to give me two weeks’ vacation and pay for the course. If after these two weeks I cannot talk to him in English, then you can take the fee out of my salary.”
He gave permission.
I went to the school. Every 45 minutes for eight hours, they changed teachers. They drilled and drilled the vocabulary, sentences, and conversations.
After eight hours in school, I went into the streets looking for English-speaking tourists to talk to. Then I listened to eight more hours of tapes.
The main reason I went to school was not to learn English. I really wanted to be a manager and go to New York City. Because I was highly motivated, learning English wasn’t hard for me. I enjoyed every second of it.
When I finished the 224 hours of study, I could communicate somewhat in English. I knew that the test was communicating with my director. If I couldn’t, I would have to pay back the $1,000. So I made up a plan. I would talk to him about all that I had learned. When I entered his office, I talked and talked for 20 minutes without letting him say a word. He said, “That’s enough. Send him to New York.” And I went to New York!

As Ulisses matured, he learned that if he would do more than what was expected or asked, the Lord would generously bless him. One such lesson came as he prepared for a mission. During interviews with Ulisses, his bishop emphasized the importance of obeying the commandments and living worthily. He also stressed financial preparation.

Today all missionaries from Brazil contribute to their mission costs, with many families contributing all the costs. As Ulisses approached mission age, he determined that he would earn all the money needed for his mission. Taking advantage of the strong work ethic he had learned working in his father’s small business and armed with the ability to type fast, Ulisses found a day job helping a company prepare its payroll.

After passing a difficult entry exam, he began studying accounting at a technical high school in the evening. Each month, after paying tithing, he would save money for his mission. After a year, he was transferred to his company’s accounting department.

“That’s how I saved money to pay for my mission,” Elder Soares says. “And each month during the three years before I left, I would buy something I needed—a shirt, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a tie, a suitcase.” He also needed, and received, strong love and support from his parents and local leaders.

When Sabrina was a freshman, Eva gave her a Book of Mormon with her testimony written in the front. As Sabrina read, she and Eva would talk about it. But another friend saw her reading it and persuaded her not to finish her reading. It took two years of talking with her LDS friends and taking the missionary discussions before Sabrina was ready for baptism. She said, “I prayed one day and I got part of my answer. I felt I was doing the right thing. Everything seemed to be right. The more I prayed, the stronger I felt it was right.”
Sabrina’s baptism affected her life in many ways. “My dad was glad because he’s seen a big change in me.” When asked how she has changed, Sabrina is a little at a loss for words. Her friends chime in with a list. “She’s a lot happier, getting better grades, involved in a lot more things, more self-confident.” Then Sabrina added a few more. “I was kind of shy, but now I’m not as much. It has changed how I feel about my friends and my family, my brothers and sisters.”
Sabrina’s friends and family aren’t the only ones who have noticed a change for the better. Sabrina says that before she joined the Church, she barely made passing grades. She will be the first one of her brothers and sisters to finish high school and the first to go on to college. “My teachers and counselors have all seen this big change. They look back at records and say, ‘What happened? What did she do that is so different?’ I was nowhere, and now I set goals.”

My name is Bea and I am five. It is hard being five years old. Today was Fast Sunday, and I’m not old enough to fast two meals. I tried to pour my own milk. It went all over the table.
“Oh, Bea,” my mother said, “you should have asked for help. It is hard for five-year-olds to pour milk.”
After I ate, I started dressing. My favorite dress has a lot of buttons. My big sister said, “Bea, you need help with all those buttons.” I let her help button my dress.
I put my shoes on by myself. I even tied them! Then my big brother said, “Bea, one of your laces is too long. You don’t want to trip over it.” He retied my shoe.
Joey, my baby brother, started to cry. I tried to carry him to Dad, but we fell. Dad said, “Joey’s too heavy for a five-year-old to carry.”
When it was my turn to read from the Book of Mormon before church this morning, Dad helped me a lot because I didn’t know most of the words.
It’s really hard being five.
During fast and testimony meeting, I whispered to Dad, “I want to bear my testimony. Will you go up with me?”
He looked at me. I was afraid that he’d say, “Bea, you are only five. You are too little to bear your testimony.” But he didn’t say that. He took me by the hand and led me to the pulpit. I bore my testimony! It was scary, but I did it all by myself. I said, “I know Jesus died and was resurrected. I love President Hinckley and Joseph Smith. I am grateful to be able to come to church. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
My dad held my hand, but he didn’t sit down. He stood by me and bore his testimony. He said, “Bea is a great teacher in our family. When she bore her testimony, I was reminded of the time when Christ came to the Nephites. He taught the children many marvelous things, and then they taught their parents. Bea has reminded me of the Savior’s mission. I am so grateful for Bea’s example. A five-year-old child can do great things.”
I was wonderfully happy. I had done something important. I was an example for my Savior by bearing my testimony. Although it is hard, I’m glad that I am five.

Some years ago we took a family trip to Aotearoa New Zealand the place of my birth so that our children would have an opportunity to visit family, learn more about part of their cultural background and heritage, and enjoy what that beautiful country has to offer. Our plans were to drive down one side of the North Island, take a ferry, which transports both passengers and vehicles, across to the south island and then return northward driving up the opposite coast. We anticipated driving over a thousand miles to visit family and various historical and tourist sites.
A family member suggested we rent a van from an acquaintance who owned a local car rental company rather than using a national company so we could save money. We took that suggestion. The journey started off well but after our first rest stop we noticed the ignition was a bit sluggish but we didn't think too much of it and carried on our way. The next morning however, we went to start the van but all it did was produce unusual loud noises. My husband Chris tried the ignition several times, and after cleaning the spark plugs, the van started. We were about eight hours away from our starting point. I thought to myself, "How could someone rent a vehicle without checking to make sure it was in top condition?" I proposed to my husband that we leave the van where it was, inform the owner that it had problems and promptly make arrangements to use a national rental company for the rest of our journey. My husband had concerns about leaving the vehicle. From his perspective, this small business owner would incur a great deal of expense retrieving his vehicle, which was located hundreds of miles away from Hamilton, our point of departure. In my mind I was thinking, "How is that my problem?" I concocted several rationalizations that easily justified my perspective, but my husband was persuasive and had our family commit to get the vehicle back to its owner. I wish I could tell you that the vehicle worked wonderfully after that, but it didn't. One morning we went to use the van and discovered that it had a hole in the tire. To make matters worse, there wasn't a jack in the trunk that would allow us to raise the van off the ground so we could change the tire. Then a little later into the journey, we were pulled over by a highway patrol officer. Apparently, the van did not have a required sticker on the windshield, which would indicate the vehicle's use of diesel gas. According to the officer, these vehicles needed to pay a special road toll and we were to obtain the sticker immediately. I'm sure I rolled my eyes at this news, as this new setback would require that we detour to the nearest town, find the appropriate office, and pay over a hundred dollars for the sticker. And we were still on the front end of our journey! I felt like we were on a reality television show, in which nothing would go our way.

An interesting thing happened when we decided to heed Chris' earlier counsel; we were going to make the best of our situation and help the owner get his van back. By changing our attitude we became open to unintended experiences that were interesting and fun because we chose to see them as such. When we looked for ways to enjoy ourselves we started to see our situation for the pluses rather than the minuses, which led us to acknowledge our gratitude for the small things like being together, enjoying each other's company, seeing our youngest son's wonderment while standing on a glacier in the middle of summer, the fact that it didn't rain while we changed the tire, the hilarious road-trip games, and the little promptings from the Lord. We met interesting people who were kind and helpful to us we ate delicious food at quaint out-of-the way cafe, and saw some sights we wouldn't have seen if we didn't have van troubles. Our family adventure brought us closer to the Lord because at times, He was the only one we could turn to. In one instance, we were at the front of the line of one hundred vehicles ready to drive off the inter-island ferry but we couldn't get the van started. Chris tried turning the ignition over and over (we counted exactly twenty-six times). All the while our family both individually and collectively pled with the Lord to help the vehicle work so we wouldn't hold up hundreds of fellow travelers who were anxious to disembark.

Throughout the entire vacation nothing changed about the vehicle, however, what did change was our family's attitude about our situation. We became reliant on the Lord every single time we got into the van. We prayed over it like it was an ill family member. My husband is a person with a great attitude who looks for the good in others and reaches out to help them. He knew that taking the responsibility for returning the van wouldn't be easy, but he was willing to put forth effort to do it because he felt it was right. His attitude was infectious and it opened us up for a different journey, which resulted in many unintended blessings and great memories.

Brothers and sisters a good attitude makes a difference in our lives and has the power to influence and uplift others. Winston Churchill said, "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference." The Late Elder Marvin J. Aston of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said back in 1974, ("Who's Losing?." Ensign, Nov 1974, 41) "The attitude with which we approach each day controls the outcome... Positive personal attitude will insist that we deliver our best, even though less might seem adequate for the moment. Proper attitude demands we be realistic: even tough with ourselves and self-disciplining." This was my experience with what I thought was the worst rental van on the face of the Earth. Instead of this trip being known as "the worst family vacation ever," we fondly refer to it as "our praying vacation."

May I share a personal missionary experience? Shortly after we arrived in Toronto we were preparing the children to enroll in their schools. My five-year-old son was to start kindergarten, but on the first day he was afraid to go. My wife and I were concerned, and I was impressed to invite my son to come into my office and sit in what the missionaries call the “hot seat,” and we would have an interview.

He climbed up into the big black chair, and I asked, “Son, how can I help you?”

I shall never forget as long as I live the look of real concern on his face. With his little chin quivering, he said, “Daddy, I am afraid.”

I understood, for I knew he had left behind several friends of his same age, and so far he had found no one his age near the mission home. I said, “Craig, you have a friend that will always be with you. Let’s kneel down together and ask Him to help you.” We did, and Craig assigned me to say the prayer.

The Lord helped Craig find his courage in this experience. Every morning thereafter we held our interview, and every morning I was assigned to pray.

Then one morning, about two weeks later, there came no knock at my office door—no special father-and-son prayer. He had found his confidence and made some friends, and I was the one that missed that very special experience each morning with my little boy. I hope that this choice learning experience while on this mission will remain with Craig and become a source of strength to him when he is called to serve the Lord on a mission of his own.