Gospel Story Finder

Today the Church honors a faithful and distinguished pioneer woman. Aurelia Spencer Rogers—a child of adversity, testing, determination, and love, who built her faith event by event, challenge by challenge. What of her beginnings?
Orson Spencer and his six motherless children ferried across the Missouri River and hurriedly moved into their unfinished log cabin in Winter Quarters. Their mother had died soon after the family left for Nauvoo. The family had to be settled before their father left for England—he had been called by President Brigham Young to publish a newspaper for the Church.
Orson Spencer had trained Ellen, just fourteen, and Aurelia, only twelve, to be father and mother to the four younger children. He bought eight cows so there would be plenty of milk to drink and enough to sell. There was also a horse to be sold if necessary to buy supplies.
That winter was long, cold, and lonely. Many people at Winter Quarters died. Aurelia wrote in her diary, “We got through the first part of the winter pretty well. … Our horse and all our cows but one had died, therefore we had no milk nor butter; our provisions had also … nearly given out. … We really suffered for something to eat; part of the time having nothing but corn-meal, which was stirred up with water and baked on a griddle. Many a night I have gone to bed without supper having to wait until I was hungry enough to eat our poor fare.” (Rogers, pp. 48, 50–51.)
One day President Brigham Young visited the Spencers’ one-room cabin and found it neat and the children clean. Their father had been gone a year. The Saints were beginning to make preparations to start their move west.
The children informed President Young that their father wrote often, making suggestions as to what they should wear, how to comb their hair, what to do if they became ill, and how to take care of each other. After President Young read their father’s last letter, he told them he had a very important matter for them to think about. He asked, “What would you say if your father stayed in England at least another year? We need him there.”
The children looked at each other and then waited for Ellen to speak since she was the oldest. “If it is thought best,” Ellen said quietly, “we would like it so, for we want to do [what’s] for the best.” (Rogers, p. 87.)
All the other children agreed. They remembered that Father had once written, “Though He slay us we should trust in Him, and all will be right.” (Rogers, p. 62.)
They had faith in their father, in his counsel, and in their Father in Heaven. In the spring of 1848, the Spencer children, with determination and grateful hearts, moved west with the Saints.
During the two-year absence of their father, the six children had experienced many trials—crossed the plains to Salt Lake Valley, lived in the old fort, then moved to a one-room adobe house. Relatives and friends watched over them, but the responsibility had rested on the two eldest girls, Ellen and Aurelia.
At last, Orson Spencer, the former New England Baptist minister, was welcomed home amid a chorus of shouts and hugs and kisses from his heroic family. He was appointed chancellor of the new University of Deseret. Daughter Aurelia was one of his students for only a time, for Aurelia had met and fallen in love with Thomas Rogers, a young teamster, while crossing the plains. They married and set up housekeeping in a log cabin in Farmington. Here in the foothills of the Wasatch, overlooking Great Salt Lake, Aurelia Spencer Rogers spent the rest of her life. Here, she bore twelve children, burying five of them in infancy. As her children grew, she became increasingly concerned about the lack of weekday wholesome activity—the genesis of Primary.
Aurelia Rogers was a daughter of the refiner’s fire. Mosiah’s counsel to “not suffer your children that they go hungry, or naked, … transgress the laws of God, … but … teach them to walk in … ways of truth, … love one another, and serve one another” was part of her life. (Mosiah 4:14–15.)
From these humble beginnings in a small Mormon town has emerged a worldwide concern for children. Every phase and aspect of our Primary program is in harmony with Christ’s teachings. Wholesomeness, virtue, culture, service, and love for one another add strength and purpose to the Primary we honor as it closes its first one hundred years.
When Primary first began, there were no lesson books or outlines. Children were taught obedience, faith in God, prayer, punctuality, good manners, and the Word of Wisdom. Aurelia must have gained strength from reading: “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.” (D&C 64:33.)
Primary will continue fulfilling its goal of enriching the lives of children—blessing not only their individual lives but the lives of their families and friends. Every child needs to know that he has a Father in Heaven who loves him, to develop a faith in Jesus Christ, and to desire to live his gospel so as to meet the pressures and problems of today’s world. Primary belongs to the children. Aurelia wrote: “Why should anything be allowed to come before the most sacred duty of parentage, that of looking after the spiritual welfare of the children? was the question which burdened my mind.” (Rogers, p. 206.)
Though Primary’s responsibility is awesome, the parent challenge is even greater. In addition to harmful programs on television, there are drugs, child abuse, acceptance of violent acts, and child pornography. Research indicates that American children watch television one-half of their waking hours. By age twelve they will have watched the violent destruction of 18,000 human beings. By age twelve they will have spent 10,720 hours with television and only 352 hours in Primary if they had perfect attendance.
Today we not only honor Aurelia Rogers but all the Primary leaders and teachers who during the first one hundred years have trained us. Her motto was:
“Our children are our jewels.
We have counted well the cost.
May the angels ever guard them,
And not one child be lost.”
(Rogers, p. iii.)
May we as parents and spiritual leaders be blessed to understand what the Master meant when he said, “Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 18:3.) In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

First, I would like to tell you about the angel who consented to be my wife after I had made four marriage proposals. When Shelley was fifteen years old, she had an experience that changed the rest of her life. At a youth conference, she unexpectedly met an apostle. He did not know Shelley or her family, but he invited her to do something really surprising. He asked, “Will you kiss your father on the cheek every night and tell him that you love him for one full year?”

Shelley agreed, even though silently she thought, “This is going to be impossible!”

The apostle did not know that her father was a wonderful but very, very reserved man. Shelley had never seen her father kiss anyone, including her mother, and she had never heard her father say, “I love you,” to anyone. But, as impossible as it seemed, she decided to do what an apostle had invited her to do.

The first few nights as she kissed her father on the cheek and said, “I love you, Dad,” he did not react positively at all.

She persisted night after night, but her father would simply sit rigid, like a statue, while she kissed him on the cheek and said, “I love you, Dad.”

This continued for one entire year. By then it felt good expressing love to him, so she decided to continue. Eventually, one night she heard her father whisper, “I love you, too.” The next night, he kissed her on the cheek as well.

A few days later, her beloved father suddenly passed away from a heart attack.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not telling you to kiss people who don’t want to be kissed. I am not telling you that it is okay for anyone to react to kindness with anger. I am telling you of the power that has come into Shelley’s life because she learned at a very young age to follow the prophets of God.

Shelley’s father did not join the Church before he passed away, but many years later another apostle asked her, “Shelley, do you know why the Spirit clearly prompted that apostle to invite you to do what he invited you to do?” He then said, “It was because Heavenly Father knew that you could soften your father’s heart before he passed away so that he could accept the gospel on the other side of the veil.”

In 1996 my wife and I had two sons, ages four and seven. We were a typical busy young family. Late one night my wife made time to write a letter to my nephew, Glen, who was then serving a mission in Finland.
For some reason, she felt she needed to write a long letter—one filled with details about what each family member was doing, where they were spiritually, what was happening in my Church calling and in her Church calling, the story of her conversion, her feelings about missionary work, and her testimony of the gospel.
It was a great letter, but I wondered if my nephew really needed that much information. Later she wrote him again.
Six years later, while I was serving as bishop and our boys were 10 and 13, my world suddenly changed. On January 2, 2002, my wife, only 42 years old, died of a heart attack.
At home I tried to continue following the principles in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.”1 I found that I could preside and provide, but I fell short in giving my sons the nurturing they needed. Nevertheless, we moved on as best we could.
In June 2012 my younger son, Sam, then serving a full-time mission in the Colorado Denver South Mission, sent me an email. “Something really cool happened this week,” he wrote. “I got two letters from Mom.”
He explained that he had received a package from his cousin Glen that included the letters she had written to him while he was in Finland.
“He told me that these two letters Mom sent him on his mission were really written for me while on my mission,” Sam wrote. “So he sent them to me, and they were incredible!”
Learning of his mother’s conversion, testimony, and feelings toward missionary work was “a great moral support at this time,” Sam wrote. He said he planned to photocopy the letters and send the originals home.
“I had no idea that you had ever served as an elders quorum president or as the ward mission leader,” Sam wrote. He learned that when he was four years old, he “would jump on the bed after prayers and shout ‘I want to be a missionary.’”
Then he added something he had learned about his mother: “Mom must have known that I would become a wrestler because she said that I could charm the socks off a pro wrestler. :)”
I was moved to tears by Sam’s reaction to the letters. A few weeks later he mailed them home. They were powerful, personal, and poignant when written in 1996, but given the events of subsequent years, they had become even more so.
My wife’s letters had strengthened my nephew, but like “casting bread upon the water” (see Ecclesiastes 11:1), they returned years later to bless her missionary son and widowed husband.

My own dear mother was a wonderful and dedicated visiting teacher for many years. She was continually thinking of ways she could bless the families she visited. She paid particular attention to the children of the women she visited, hoping to strengthen families. I can remember one five-year-old running up to my mother at church and declaring, “You are my visiting teacher. I love you!” Being part of the lives of wonderful women and their families was a blessing to my mother.

Elder David Antonio Parada and Elder Sergio Saavedra turn the corner and start up the next street in a busy neighborhood in San Salvador. Children are chasing each other. A dog is barking. Women and girls pass by with loads of food or laundry on their heads. Radios tuned to various stations are blaring from open windows, each playing music with energetic Latin rhythms.
Just as the elders reach the red house, the novios (an engaged couple) arrive from the other direction for their appointment. They invite the missionaries into their house and arrange the chairs into a circle. After prayer, the girl disappears into another room and comes back with the copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Have you been praying?” Elder Parada asks. The girl nods. “Have you been reading the Book of Mormon?” Yes, they read their assignment in 3 Nephi 11 [3 Ne. 11]. “Wonderful! Keep reading and praying about it, and you’ll know by the power of the Holy Ghost that it is true.”
The lesson is on the plan of salvation. Elder Parada takes his ball-point pen apart. “Our bodies are like this pen’s outer shell,” he says, “and our spirit are like this inner part with the ink.” Using this simple visual aid, he explains death and resurrection. When the girl asks a question, Elder Parada answers with verses from his well-marked scriptures.
Then Elder Saavedra takes his turn teaching. Both missionaries seem completely at home here; neither is hampered by language or cultural distractions. The girl’s mother, who has been outside washing clothes, comes in and overhears part of the discussion. A rooster outside starts crowing, and a couple of chickens walk past the open door. A breeze blows lightly through the open window and rustles the curtain that serves as a door into the back room. The discussion proceeds smoothly. As the missionaries prepare to leave, the mother smiles and comes over to shake their hands. She says she might come to church with the novios tomorrow.
Elder Parada and Elder Saavedra say good-bye to the novios and walk back down the street. “It’s beautiful to see that pair of elders working together,” their mission president later comments. Elder Parada comes from an extremely humble background, the son of a field worker; his junior companion, Elder Saavedra, is the son of the Mexican consul to El Salvador. One worked for years in the fields to save money for his mission; the other left cars and stereos behind. Now they’re a team—humble, confident, articulate.
They cross a ravine on a swinging footbridge. Then, turning the corner, they start up the next street in another neighborhood of San Salvador.

In 1969, I had just finished college and had set up my first studio in a chicken coop behind my dad’s house. It was scary. With a wife and two small children to support, I had no idea how I was going to make a living. I wanted to be an artist, but at the time, there were very few artists who made their living by selling their work. It was real scary.
One of the lucky breaks for me in those early years was an article on my work which appeared in a Church magazine. Not yet a full-fledged magazine, the “Era of Youth” was just a 14-page insert in the old Improvement Era magazine, which later became the Ensign.
The editors came to my studio one day to do a story on my art. They had photos taken of my makeshift studio, published several of my poems, and even, before it was all over, chose one of my sculptures as the cover for the entire magazine, the February 1969 issue.
It was not the most typical cover the Era ever published, since it consisted of welded steel scraps and an egg beater reworked into a piece of sculpture called “One-man Sub.” A bronze figure of a boy sat in the submarine, floating in Plexiglas waters with pasted-in clouds.
More than a few subscribers probably looked twice and scratched their heads that month as they tried to figure out what a submarine was doing on the front cover of the Church magazine.

One night, I couldn’t sleep because I was very scared about things that weren’t there. I asked my dad if he would give me a blessing. He gave me one, and my mom tucked me back in bed. Then she pulled out my Bible and starting reading from Psalms. When she got to Psalm 4:8, it was all about my trouble falling asleep! It said, “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.” We said it was “my scripture,” and my mom typed it on a piece of paper for me, and I was able to get to sleep. I know that Heavenly Father puts things in the scriptures to help us. I also know that blessings really help you, and I’m glad my dad has the priesthood so that he can give them to me.
Melanie Fry, age 11Layton, Utah

The only girl in her Primary class, Corissa was a missionary in the Purdue Mission at the Primary quarterly activity. After the Primary, missionaries put on their name tags, they played “Name That Missionary” by guessing who the “missionaries of the past” were in slides that were shown.
Next, the Primary missionaries learned the importance of scriptures by having a scripture chase: They were divided into teams, and each participant was given a picture. At a signal, each Primary missionary raced to the other end of the cultural hall and found the scripture that the picture illustrated.
Then Corissa learned about food preparation as her missionary district made graham cracker bars. From the kitchen, she returned to the cultural hall, where she raced to put on missionary clothes—shoes, jacket, hat, and tie or scarf—and carry a set of scriptures while she “knocked on doors.”
Finally she got her “missionary picture,” which was made by getting her whole body traced; then she colored the tracing.

For many years I have been haunted by an experience that occurred in my own life. I was working in a community where a full-time seminary was operated adjacent to the local high school. Part way through one school year, a teaching vacancy occurred at the seminary because of a health problem experienced by one of the teachers. I was invited to assume several of his classes each day over a period of time until a replacement could be found. In most respects it was a delightful experience and one that carries fond recollections for me. In one of the classes, however, there was a young man who proved to be a real challenge. He was in his final year of high school. He was bright and talented. It was obvious that he was popular with the other students and had a considerable influence with them. However, his conduct in the seminary class was generally disruptive. He sought for attention and usually got it as a result of his misbehavior in class.
In my desire to establish an atmosphere in the class where we could discuss and learn about things of a spiritual nature, I was repeatedly frustrated by the antics of this young man. He craved the attention of the other students. Several private consultations with him brought no improvements. In our interviews he was amiable enough, but he reverted to his disruptive behavior as soon as the next class convened.
I spoke with the counseling staff at the high school across the street from the seminary and learned from them that the young man came from a single parent home and that he was a constant problem in his classes at the high school, even though his aptitude test scores showed above average ability and talent.
There finally came a day when I knew I must do something decisive if I were to maintain some sense of order and direction in the class. After a typical outburst I invited the young man to step outside the classroom with me. There I told him that I could no longer sacrifice the opportunities of the other students in order to accommodate his whimsical behavior. I told him that he was no longer welcome in the class until he could control his conduct and contribute to the spiritual atmosphere necessary in a seminary classroom. He spun on his heel without comment and left the building. I never saw him again.
His mother called me that afternoon and expressed her displeasure and distress over what I had done. She warned me that the expulsion of her son from the seminary class would come back to haunt me.
The mother’s prediction has been correct. I have never been able to completely free my mind of that experience. Within a week or two of these events, my work was changed, and I was moved to another part of the country. I have no idea whether the young man ever returned to seminary. I don’t even remember his name now because it has been more than 20 years. I have sometimes wondered if there is a father of a large family out there somewhere who blames his estrangement from the Church on the action of an unsympathetic seminary teacher many years ago.
I am sure I have learned some things in the intervening years that would have helped me handle the situation more competently. Perhaps there are some things I could have done that I did not do to help the young man change his attitude and conduct. I am sure there were. However, as I look back upon those experiences, I recall vividly the concern I felt for the other students in the class and the intense desire I felt to somehow bless their lives. As my mind runs back over that episode, I inevitably come to the same dilemma I faced the day when I invited the young man to leave the seminary class. In addition to my responsibility for his spiritual opportunities, what was my responsibility to the other class members whose opportunities were being jeopardized by the conduct of the young man? What were his responsibilities?

However, just because we have a spirit of gratitude, faith in the Savior, and pray sincerely does not mean we will not have trials and hard times. We learn and grow from the experiences we have here in mortality. I grew up with wonderful parents that exemplified the gospel. My mother taught Spanish and my father was a civil engineer. My father was big and strong. When I was young I loved to have him throw me up in the air then catch me laughing. He carried me on his shoulders and showed me the world. Later he carried his grandchildren the same way.
When I was about six I realized that he was one of the kindest people in the world. One day as we stood in line for an ice cream cone he left me with my sister and walked past the angry customers to the front of the line. He quietly told the frustrated clerk that he would pay the difference between the handful of pennies a messy little boy had spread on the counter and the food the boy had ordered. It was a small thing really, maybe a few dollars, but it made a huge impact on me. I first began to understand the love of the Savior because of the love my father showed.
About a month ago my father died. We had 12 hours from the time that the Life Flight helicopter landed at the hospital for my family to gather. Machines surrounded his bed in the critical care unit. They buzzed and cried out while they traced the electronic patterns of his failing body. At the end, I stood at his bedside with my mother and my sisters, my husband and my children, and we wept. At that moment everything else fell away—all concern with pretense, or positions, or possessions did not matter. The only things that remained important were the covenants that held my family together and the Savior's victory over death.
The next Friday, after work, I walked along the snow-packed streets of Rexburg. I would like to thank the many BYU-Idaho students who stopped to offer me a ride. I'm sure I looked cold walking in the snow and slush, but despite the skirt I was wearing I just felt the need to walk and think. No one could see the invisible hurt and sorrow I was carrying. When I looked up through the swirling flakes I could see the temple, creamy white in the snow. But instead of peace, questions machine-gunned into my mind, not because I doubt, but because I hurt. Where was my father? Is the gospel real? Can these covenants really keep us safe? How will I help my mother? Where is hope? Will this winter ever end? By the time I got home I was numb, even more in my heart than in my toes. I talked, walked, made dinner, and slept numb.
In the morning the sun rose. Outside, as I ran past the snowfields, answers came. Past the despair and pain that seemed to hang in the air, I could breathe in the hope given through the Atonement. Through the Savior's sacrifice my heart could beat, my lungs could fill, and blood could circulate without collapsing under the weight of forever losing someone I loved, because of the Atonement; because of the covenants my father and mother made and spent their lives keeping; because of the covenants I have made and am striving to keep, we can be united as a family again. The Savior and Redeemer knows perfectly how to succor us.

Another thing I learned from my father is gratitude. When I was a child, there was a severe drought in our community. Weeks and weeks passed with no water, and our small farming community was suffering. As the bishop, Father told the ward members to fast and pray for water. He also counseled them to settle any bad feelings among each other so that we could have feelings of love and unity in our ward.
I remember gathering for the special fast and testimony meeting we held to plead for water. During the meeting, it began to rain. It rained so heavily that we couldn’t leave the meetinghouse! We had to wait for it to stop before we could go home.
Our prayers were answered. In gratitude, my father invited the ward members back the next week for a second fast and testimony meeting—this one to thank the Lord for sending the water. I learned at a young age to thank Heavenly Father for the blessings He gives us.

On January 12, 2007, a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt walked into a Washington, DC, subway station, pulled a violin from its case, and began to play.2 He put his soul into the performance, sometimes pounding his bow against the strings, sometimes gently caressing them to bring out soft and sorrowful tones.

As he played, more than a thousand commuters passed through the train station on their way to work. They had busy days ahead of them: lists of things to do, worries, and troubles. Their minds were occupied with everyday trivial things—like where and what to eat for lunch, how their favorite sports team was doing, or whether anyone would notice their new glasses.

Some, undoubtedly, were wrestling with greater problems: a challenging health diagnosis, relationships that were unraveling, financial loss, or some other pressing anxiety.

In short, these people were people like you and me: unwrapping the gift of a new day, even the gift of a brand-new year, but consumed with the trivial and tragic, the petty and profound.

Did they notice the musician? Or was the man with the violin merely part of the impressionistic blur that shaded the all-too-familiar backdrop of their daily lives?

What these commuters did not know was that this musician was no ordinary violinist, he was playing no ordinary instrument, and he was playing no ordinary music.

The man’s name was Joshua Bell—one of the most accomplished musicians in the world.

The violin he played was handcrafted in 1713 by Antonio Stradivari. Joshua Bell had purchased it a few years earlier for an estimated $3.5 million.

And the music he played was some of the most challenging and beautiful ever composed.

Now, this whole experience in the subway station had been set up by a journalist from the Washington Post who was curious to know what would happen if a world-class musician gave an anonymous, virtuoso performance in the walkways of an ordinary subway station.

Would people recognize the sublime music played by a brilliant artist on an unparalleled instrument?

Or would they ignore him? Would they throw a coin or two into his open violin case and walk by?

Some people at the Washington Post worried that the experiment would cause a traffic-control nightmare at the station, with hundreds of people crowding around to listen.

Here is what happened.

Of the nearly 1,100 people who passed by Joshua Bell during his forty-five-minute performance, only “seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute.”3

One person who had passed within four feet of Joshua Bell later could not recall that he had even seen a musician on his way to work. As it turns out, this man had been wearing earbuds, listening to a favorite rock song on his personal playlist. Ironically, the lyrics of the song were about failing to see the beauty right before your eyes.

Two months ago, I celebrated my eightieth birthday. This gives me a very long perspective on what is essential to provide protections. When Mary and I were still in our twenties in the 1960s, the turbulence, anger, and social unrest was similar to what we have experienced recently. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area. The combination of racial unrest, the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., the unpopular Vietnam War, and a destabilizing drug culture resulted in demonstrations that included rioting and looting and the occupation by dissidents of administrative offices of major universities.

In the face of this chaos, we were blessed to receive counsel from President Harold B. Lee, who was the president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles at the time. We appreciated that counsel then and cherish it now.

President Lee’s counsel, in addition to following the prophet, was for both families and individuals. First, build Zion in your hearts and in your homes. Second, be a light on the hill and an example in your community. And third, focus your vision and goals on the ordinances and principles taught in the temple. President Lee promised that we would be protected if we followed these principles and that we could live anywhere in the world.

It was Elliott’s first day at a new school, and he was nervous.
Mom, I’m going to miss my old friends.
I know you will, but you can make new friends.
After arriving at school, Elliott sat down in a new classroom. A lot of the children already knew each other. They were talking and laughing. Elliott sat quietly.
At recess Elliott couldn’t find anyone to play with. He didn’t know whom to ask. A couple of the boys on the playground said something unkind to him. Elliott was not happy.
Elliott returned home from school feeling sad.
What’s wrong?
I had a hard day at school. You said I would make new friends, but I didn’t. Some boys were mean to me, and I didn’t even do anything to them.
I’m sorry you had a bad day. If you keep trying, things will get better. Maybe we should pray about this. What do you think?
OK. I really want to have a good time at school.
Day after day Elliott prayed for help so he could have good days at school. Some days were a little rough, but he slowly started to find friends to play with.
Elliott kept praying for help. After a few weeks, Elliott was playing with new friends every day. Even though some kids were not always nice, he wasn’t bothered by them as much. Elliott knew Heavenly Father blessed him so he could be happy at his new school.

As the Church quickly became central to Frederick and Rebecca’s lives, the impact on their family was immediate. Frederick was ordained an elder right after his baptism and confirmation. The very next day, he enthusiastically accepted an assignment to leave within a few weeks to serve a mission with Oliver Cowdery. They anticipated the mission would last three weeks; in reality it became a 10-month trip to Missouri. His long absence from home was the first of many such periods for Rebecca. Because of Frederick’s missionary efforts and his calling into the First Presidency, he was frequently away. Rebecca, like many early Mormon women, spent long months tending their home and raising their children without the help of her husband.

When we learn to depend on our abilities and the blessings that God has given us, we can achieve great goals and overcome any obstacles that stand in our way. I have experienced this in my life.
When I was young, I realized I had a passion for sales. I began my career in a hardware store, serving customers and providing exceptional service. Over time, I rose to become a supervisor and purchasing manager. For 12 years, I learned everything necessary to be successful in that field. I express gratitude to my Heavenly Father for granting me that chance and for giving me the desire and opportunities to be completely independent.
Today, thanks to hard work and God’s help, I have my own company. Being self-sufficient not only allows me to take care of myself and my family, but I also can serve and care for others in more meaningful ways. These experiences have shown me that it is not necessary to have extraordinary talents or a college degree to achieve success. All you need is to have a proper perspective and a dream to realize your potential.
Today I feel grateful for the path I have traveled and for the success I have achieved. But I also feel a responsibility to help others find their own path to success. We all have the potential to achieve great things if we dare to dream and work hard to achieve it. I encourage you to never limit yourself and to trust in the power of Jesus Christ to overcome any obstacle and achieve success in your life.

I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this Church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble. They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”

As each month passes by on my mission, I am always thrilled to receive the New Era. The article “We Talk of Christ” really hit me hard. As I was working with the hearing impaired in the Portland area, my companion and I met a fine young lady and became good friends. She asked a lot of questions on a lot of different subjects, especially about prophets and temples, and we answered the best we could.
After the third visit she asked us not to return. I asked myself what we had done wrong. Looking back, I remembered reading “We Talk of Christ” in the New Era two days earlier. I realized that we didn’t talk about Christ very much, perhaps leading her to suppose that we worshiped prophets.
The next day we called her and apologized. I told her that we believe in Christ as the cornerstone of our religion. She responded happily and wanted us to come back and talk to her. I pray that she will accept the gifts of the gospel.

Julia’s heart pounded as she peeked into the empty room. The Primary classroom, with its half circle of folding chairs and dusty chalkboard, looked exactly like hers at home. But Julia’s stomach flip-flopped as she walked through the door. Things might look the same, but Julia knew they weren’t. Today she was a visitor.
Julia sank into the chair farthest from the door. She loved everything about her family’s summer visits to see cousins and grandparents, except for being a visitor in a different ward. Singing Primary songs and learning about the Savior was nice, but she didn’t like sitting by herself and not knowing anyone.
Julia also didn’t like listening to the other kids talk and laugh together while no one even looked at her. To her, it felt like no one cared if she came or not. It was like being invisible—Julia, the amazing invisible visitor!
Julia twirled her long blonde braids and wished she were back home with her own Primary teacher, Sister Johansson, and her best friend, Hanna. “Maybe this time will be different,” she told herself as she adjusted her glasses and smoothed her skirt one more time. “Maybe if I try really hard, I can make it different.”
Julia jumped as the door opened. Three girls stepped into the room, talking excitedly. Two boys followed. Julia took a quick breath and forced her mouth into a smile.
“Hi!” she burst out. Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on her. Julia’s face got hot.
“Uh, hi,” mumbled one of the girls.
“Are you new?” another girl asked.
Julia cleared her throat. “No, I’m just visiting my grandma.”
“Oh.”
Everyone chose a seat. Julia’s smile faded when she realized that each chair was taken except the one next to her. No one said a word to Julia. She stared at her hands. “The amazing invisible visitor strikes again,” she thought. A tear slid down her cheek.
A week later Julia’s heart seemed to float as she hurried down the hallway at church. It was so good to be home! When she walked into her classroom, Hanna was already there.
“Hi, Julia! I’m so glad you’re back!” Hanna said.
Julia sat down next to Hanna. Soon they were laughing and talking. Julia had just started to tell Hanna all about her week with Grandma when a tall, slender girl with reddish-gold hair appeared in the doorway. Julia watched the girl slip into the chair farthest from the door and sit by herself.
“She must be a visitor,” Julia thought. “Boy, am I glad it’s not me this time!” The girl raised her eyes to look around and then stared down at her hands. Julia’s heart twisted as no one said a word to the visitor. “I wish being the visitor didn’t have to be so hard,” she thought. “It should be different!” Last Sunday flashed through her mind for a moment as she remembered being the sad, invisible visitor. She blinked. Wait a minute—she could make it different this time!
Julia stood up. “Hi,” she said with a smile. She crossed the room and sat down in the chair next to the girl. “Are you visiting today?”
The girl looked up with wide eyes, and then her face lit up. “Yes, I’m visiting my aunt. Are you visiting too?”
Julia shook her head. “No, but I know how it is,” she explained. “I’m Julia. What’s your name?”
“Ella.”
“Want to come over and sit with Hanna and me?”
Ella grinned and nodded. As the two girls moved back across the room, Julia felt warm inside. “No invisible visitors allowed!” she thought. “Not if I can help it!”

I also often spent time in the homes of my two uncles as I played with my cousins. I especially liked being there when it was time for family prayer. Uncle Carl was a farmer. When he prayed, he concentrated on really talking to Heavenly Father, thanking Him for his many blessings and humbly pleading for moisture for the crops. Uncle Angus was the father of six lively boys, and he prayed for the guidance and protection of his sons. When these two men prayed, I knew that Heavenly Father was listening. I got the same warm feeling while kneeling in family prayer with them that I did while on my grandpa’s lap listening to scripture stories.