Gospel Story Finder

“The rest of my family is Buddhist,” Chung Wen-yi, 17, of the Second Ward, said. “But among the students at my school, there are many who believe in Christ. I became interested in Christians. I saw many churches. But they all seemed to just read the Bible from the pulpit and give some explanations. They didn’t seem to care whether the congregation got the message or not. Then they asked for donations. I felt like I didn’t learn anything from them.
“Then a classmate gave my name to the missionaries. They came to my door. What they said was all so orderly, so logical and right. They helped me understand my Father in Heaven as a loving father, and his son Jesus Christ as my friend and brother. After several discussions, they asked if I would like to be baptized. I prayed about it. Sometimes I felt so happy I couldn’t even sleep at night. I knew it was right. I joined willingly, not being pushed or forced.”

It had been an unusually warm day in Lüneburg, Germany, and Elder Kevin Pepper and I were tired. Our last appointment ended at 9:00 P.M., and we had a half hour more to work before returning to our apartment. It was too late for knocking on doors, so we got on our bikes and rode to Lüneburg’s central shopping district. Most of the shops had closed three hours earlier, and the busy daytime crowds were gone—leaving only a few window-shoppers enjoying the evening, in no hurry to get anywhere.
We pushed our bikes slowly, stopping now and then to ask fellow pedestrians if they would like to know something about the restored gospel. No one was interested. And this was typical. Germany was considered a “hard mission.” Few baptisms. Lots of knocking on doors and stopping pedestrians. People were usually polite, but they were cautious about anything new, for the most part unwilling to consider a change in religions.
We reached the far end of the street at about 9:25. Time to head for our apartment. But there in the evening shadows, leaning against a wall, was a man with thinning hair and a somewhat straggly beard. I looked at Elder Pepper; he looked at me. We were tired, we’d had no success that day, and I could tell we were thinking the same thought. One of us may have even spoken it aloud: “He’s probably just like the rest of the people we’ve talked to today. Let’s go home.” But something inside me said, “Go talk to him.”
We approached the man and asked if he knew anything about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He didn’t. Would he like to learn something about it? Yes, he said, and he gave us his address.
When we visited Alfred Kliche later that week, we discovered he was markedly different from most of the people we talked with. He was more reserved, more serious than most, but also more open-minded. He was searching for something. As he later put it, “I was considering becoming acquainted with other people who, like me, had not yet lost their faith in God.” He showed us a book he was reading, a book from an Eastern religion. We taught him about Joseph Smith and gave him a book of our own. He accepted it with reserved curiosity and said he’d read it.
We left after that first discussion not knowing quite what to think about Herr Kliche. Personally, I doubted he’d read the book. The first year of my mission—a year with no baptisms and plenty of disappointments—had left its mark on me. I’d seen enough “reality” to dilute my hopes with a fair dose of skepticism. But Herr Kliche invited us back, and when we came to teach him again, he told us he had read a good deal in the Book of Mormon. He said he particularly enjoyed the Isaiah chapters in 2 Nephi. During my 10 months in Germany, no one had ever made that claim before. In fact, I don’t recall having heard it in the 23 years since.
We taught Herr Kliche all through an unusually hot July and into August. He made slow, steady progress but seemed in no hurry to make any permanent changes in his life. Elder Pepper and I didn’t really know what was going on inside him. He was as indecipherable as the Eastern religious book he had shown us.
Then one day in early August a letter came from the mission office. I was being transferred. Elder Pepper and I had a few good investigators by this time, and it was hard to leave them. I wondered what would happen. But immersing myself in a new area and in the lives of a new group of investigators and members took all my attention and left me little time to worry about Lüneburg.
One day several weeks after the transfer, however, I received a phone call from Elder Pepper. He told me Herr Kliche was getting baptized on 16 October, and he wanted me to be there. Since my transfer had been merely to the other side of the Hamburg stake, our mission president gave me permission to attend.
Elder Pepper told me over the phone that Herr Kliche had made slow, steady progress for the most part, but in the end he completely surprised them. The missionaries had given him a baptismal challenge on 21 September, and he had accepted. But on 28 September he was concerned. He believed he had received a witness but wanted to be sure. Then, a few days later, everything seemed to fall apart. Herr Kliche informed them he wasn’t interested in meeting with them anymore. Elder Pepper and Elder Hardy were devastated. Where had they gone wrong? What could they do?
But on 3 October something unexpected happened. Elder Pepper recorded in his journal: “Herr Kliche came to church this morning. … The Spirit was so strong that everyone in the tiny chapel could feel it, especially Herr Kliche. He sat in the second row to the left all by himself. … With tears in his eyes he stood and bore his testimony. The sun shone through the large windows, and a beam of light appeared to shine directly on him as he bore a simple and beautiful testimony. It was so sincere. He said he felt fulfilled in this Church and hoped to become a member soon. Just seven weeks or so ago he was ready to give up his search for the truth; he didn’t see any reason why he should change churches, because they were all about the same. And now the Spirit of Truth has helped him see the difference, and he wants to be a member. I was so thrilled I could hardly keep the joy I felt inside. Today will always be a cherished memory.”
Ironically, four days later Elder Pepper was transferred to Kiel and was unable to attend the baptism. But on 16 October 1976, my companion and I took the subway into Hamburg, walked to the stake center, and there witnessed the baptism of Alfred Kliche, a rare and gratifying event in the course of a difficult mission. I have kept in touch with Bruder Kliche over the years. Indeed, his conversion, because it was complete and enduring, has brought me much joy.
The little Lüneburg Branch was dissolved a few years after Bruder Kliche’s baptism, and the members were absorbed into a Hamburg ward. Bruder Kliche, always solid in the gospel, has served in the bishopric and on the stake high council. He also married a fine Latter-day Saint, and after several years they served a temple mission together. “I am here to serve the Lord,” he wrote me recently, “and to make progress. We are very thankful for our time in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
As I look back to that summer evening in 1976, I am glad Elder Pepper and I were not too tired to talk to just one more son of our Heavenly Father. We almost didn’t, and it has been a lesson to me ever since. Had we quit a few minutes early, what a loss it would have been—for us, for the Church, and, most of all, for Bruder Kliche.

Several years ago I had as a special acquaintance and good friend an Aaronic Priesthood-age boy from whom I learned some of life’s special lessons. He came from what we commonly refer to as a good family, but his parents seemed to take the heart of the gospel for granted. They were willing to attend most of their meetings on Sunday, if it was convenient. They were warm people and friendly—always receptive to the brethren and sisters who came to their home. But I doubt if they had family prayer very often, and I’m sure family home evening was something occasionally discussed but seldom experienced. With no real personal attention, the children were allowed to come and go as they pleased.
On one occasion my young friend told me he was sure that his parents loved him, but, oh, how he wished they cared about him! You know, to a young person there can be a difference. He said he wished just once as he went out the door they would ask him where he was going and when he would be home. He wanted them to give him some guidelines. He confessed that he wasn’t always sure of the judgments that were left to him. If only they had cared enough.
Now, years later, the offspring of this family have experienced the birth of illegitimate children, divorce in their own marriages, runaways, drug addiction, and most everything else that can be tragic in our lives.

From Sister Phyllis Marshall, Massey Park Ward, Auckland Papatoetoe Stake
As a young mother, I became more aware of how commercialised Christmases were becoming each year. I loved the decorations and the music that played in the malls and on the radio, but they pushed subtle ideas of what we should be buying, what our homes should look like and what our meals should be. They were not about our Saviour’s birth, which is the true reason for the season. So, one year, my husband, Jim, and I decided to try something. On Christmas morning, the children woke up to only three gifts under the tree and a reminder of how our Saviour only received three gifts from the Wise Men. In the coming years, we tried other ways keep the focus of Christmas on Jesus Christ. This included secret gift-giving, where we would drop off a box of presents and food to a family in need, knock and then run and hide. We also introduced Christmas morning devotionals full of singing and prayer and a reverent reading of the biblical account of our Saviour’s birth. Some of these activities have become lasting traditions, and they have made all the difference in how we, as a family, enjoy and celebrate Christmas.

In my own family there is a story of a young woman who had the courage to start to teach doctrine when she was only a new convert with little education. And the fact that the effects of her teaching haven’t ended gives me patience to wait for the fruits of my own efforts.

Mary Bommeli was my great-grandmother. I never met her. Her granddaughter heard her tell her story and wrote it down.

Mary was born in 1830. The missionaries taught her family in Switzerland when she was 24. She was still living at home, weaving and selling cloth to help support her family on their small farm. When the family heard the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, they knew it was true. They were baptized. Mary’s brothers were called on missions, going without purse or scrip. The rest of the family sold their possessions to go to America to gather with the Saints.

There was not enough money for all to go. Mary volunteered to stay behind because she felt she could earn enough from her weaving to support herself and save for her passage. She found her way to Berlin and to the home of a woman who hired her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. She lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the living area of the home.

It was against the law then to teach the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Berlin. But Mary could not keep the good news to herself. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear the Swiss girl teach. She talked about the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, of the visitation of angels, and of the Book of Mormon. When she came to the accounts of Alma, she taught the doctrine of the Resurrection.

That caused some problems with her weaving. In those days, many children died very young. The women around the loom had lost children in death, some of them several children. When Mary taught the truth that little children were heirs of the celestial kingdom and that those women might again be with them and with the Savior and our Heavenly Father, tears rolled down the faces of the women. Mary cried too. All those tears falling got the cloth wet that Mary had woven.

Mary’s teaching created a more serious problem. Even though Mary begged the women not to talk about what she told them, they did. They shared the joyous doctrine with their friends. So one night there was a knock at the door. It was the police. They took Mary off to jail. On the way, she asked the policeman for the name of the judge she was to appear before the next morning. She asked if he had a family. She asked if he was a good father and a good husband. The policeman smiled as he described the judge as a man of the world.

At the jail, Mary asked for a pencil and some paper. She wrote a letter to the judge. She wrote about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, about the spirit world, and about how long the judge would have to think and to consider his life before facing the final judgment. She wrote that she knew he had much to repent of which would break his family’s heart and bring him great sorrow. She wrote through the night. In the morning she asked the policeman to take her letter to the judge. He did.

Later, the policeman was summoned by the judge to his office. The letter Mary had written was irrefutable evidence that she was teaching the gospel and so breaking the law. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long until the policeman came back to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go, on the conditions she had stated in her letter. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had opened eyes and hearts enough to get her cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail (see Theresa Snow Hill, Life and Times of Henry Eyring and Mary Bommeli [1997], 15–22).

On the way to priesthood meeting on Sunday mornings, Dad would make several stops. He would leave the car, disappear to the rear of the home, and then, in a minute or two, reappear. I inquired about why we were making the stops. “Oh, just a little missionary work” was his usual response. It wasn’t until I was a priest that I realized the missionary work being done was the quorum president knocking on bedroom windows reminding his sleepy quorum members of the need to attend their meetings. As the president of the Aaronic Priesthood, the bishop has the responsibility to see that all youth receive instruction concerning the doctrines of the kingdom as well as in the principles of honesty and charity. When the bishop encourages your attendance at meetings, he is not attempting to plan your life or adjust your schedules. He is attempting to show interest and concern because he knows the importance of partaking of the sacrament and the strength we gain by associating with each other.

If Mom’s sweet tooth was a problem, her real teeth gave her fits! She had one stubborn tooth that was constantly ragged and broken. Fred had tried hardening it, sawing it off, and filing it down. Nothing worked. It kept breaking and cutting her cheek. Finally, Old Mom took matters into her own hands. She found an old rag and packed the offending tooth. Then, apparently knowing that there was danger in swallowing the rag, she unpacked the tooth at mealtimes and laid the rag at her feet. After eating, she carefully repacked it. From then on, Fred always saw to it that Old Mom had a fresh supply of clean rags.

One Sunday when leaving for church, our car would not start. We lived in Germany, far from our chapel and other members. My wife and I each offered a prayer for help, but still the car wouldn’t start. I suggested that perhaps we should rely on the faith of a child. We asked our three-year old son, David, if he would say a prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please bless the car to start,” he said simply but firmly.
We turned the key, and the engine started right up! We were grateful that day for David’s faith. It was pure, simple, and true.

Since my Primary days, I have known that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I also knew I should read it every night. Unfortunately, I somehow missed out on the search, ponder, and pray aspect of scripture study.
During my junior year of high school, a nonmember friend, Jennifer Cotton, handed me several sheets of paper titled, in bold letters, “Questions for Lani.” I stuffed the sheets of paper into my backpack and rushed off to class.
Later that week, the questions surfaced in my backpack. There were exactly 100 questions about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—100 questions!
I felt overwhelmingly inadequate. I pleaded with Heavenly Father to help me answer these questions. I felt prompted to open my scriptures. The first verse I read was, “Therefore, ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for he that asketh, receiveth; and unto him that knocketh, it shall be opened” (3 Ne. 27:29). Tears welled up in my eyes, and I knew that with Heavenly Father’s help I would find the answers.
I spent hours studying the scriptures. I was amazed to find verses answering questions that had seemed so intimidating hours before.
The next day, I handed Jennifer her answers, along with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She tearfully expressed her gratitude.
Jennifer called that night to say she had finished reading 1 Nephi. I cannot explain the joy I felt. Mosiah 18:9 tells us that true believers are willing “to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things.” Jennifer gave me an opportunity to stand as a witness—and later an opportunity to see her baptized into the Church.
I now have a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon. No matter what my need or problem, I can turn to my scriptures. Through searching, pondering, and praying, I know I will find the answer.

Few sights are as adorable—and as inspiring—as young children teaching a family home evening lesson. But helping children prepare lessons can be a struggle. One day as I was cleaning the house, I found a simple solution right before my eyes.
There on the floor was a hand-out one of my children had brought home from Primary. Suddenly the handout seemed like gold. It occurred to me that it—and others I had attached to the refrigerator or hidden away in drawers—could serve as springboards for lessons my children could give for family home evening!
That day I started files for each of my children in which to keep the pictures and other handouts they occasionally bring home from Primary. Now when one of my young children has a lesson assignment for family home evening, I open the appropriate file and let him or her look through it. Inevitably they find a visual aid they can use to teach our family a principle once taught them by a caring and inspired teacher.

“Wider, please.”
Lane was reluctant to show the tartar on his teeth to the cute, new dental assistant, but he had no choice. She pulled the overhead light closer. He admired her green eyes, all he could see of her face. The rest was hidden behind the surgical mask. He watched her gloved fingers juggle the little dental pick and mirror as she scraped at his teeth.
Lane was relieved to see that Rhonda, the regular assistant who had worked there for years, was not there. She was an older woman who had always been very nice to him, but she had a horrible case of dandruff and he could see the flakes all too clearly whenever she bent her head over his open mouth.
“You must be new,” he managed to say to the assistant. It was obvious, but it was all he could think of to say. “I’ve been coming to Dr. Hodges since I was a little boy, and I’ve never seen you here.”
“Mmmm,” she said, concentrating. “Just moved here. How often do you floss?”
“Uh, well, maybe a few times a month. I kind of forget to do it every day,” he admitted. Now he regretted being so lax with his flossing. He was probably not making a very good impression. He would have to hurry to change that. Once Dr. Hodges injected the anesthetic, his mouth would go numb. It would be impossible to impress her with a lopsided smile and garbled speech. He wondered how he could let her know that he had made the winning basket last year in the high school playoffs without seeming arrogant.
He missed his chance. The assistant squirted his mouth and suctioned the water out, dabbed his face with the paper bib pinned around his neck, then left. He heard his little brother Evan talking to her from the cubicle next to his. Evan would talk her leg off. Dad had predicted that Evan would grow up to be either a police negotiator or an auctioneer.
“Hey, my brother has to get his teeth fixed, and he already had a whole bunch of shots. I don’t think he cried. He’s getting a short haircut, and my mom and dad bought him a bunch of suits and ties.”
“Wow,” was all the assistant said, in a dull-sounding tone. She told Evan, “I’m putting some of this cleaning stuff on your teeth. It’s a little gritty, like sand, but it tastes like cherries. I’ll use this little tool and scrub your teeth with it, okay?”
“Oh, that’s like the cleanser I use on the bathtub on Saturday when I do my Saturday jobs. Except it tastes better.” There was a pause, and then Evan said, “Not that I ever ate cleanser. Yuck!”
It was quiet while the assistant scrubbed his teeth, but as soon as Evan’s mouth was free, Lane could hear him talking again.
Dr. Hodges came in. For a moment, Lane was distracted while the dentist examined his teeth and got ready to give him the anesthetic.
Lane could hear Evan as he continued to talk. “I’m getting baptized next Saturday. I’m eight, so I’m old enough because I mostly know how to tell right from wrong. Baptisms are in a big font like a warm swimming pool. I guess it’s like a bath for my spirit. Hey, you can come if you want. It’s at seven on Saturday night at Westbrook chapel, just a couple blocks from my house.”
Lane was thinking, Come up for air, buddy, even as his eyes squinted in pain as Dr. Hodges nestled the needle into the back of his mouth.
Evan kept talking. “My brother’s going on a mission. It’s for our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Some people call us Mormons because we have the Book of Mormon. It’s kind of like the Bible, but we read the Bible, too. Anyway, my brother will go to Argentina and baptize people there after he teaches them about the gospel. They put on white clothes and go under the water too. Nobody drowns,” he added.
Then Evan said, “He’ll be gone a long time. Two whole years. And nobody pays him. He usually doesn’t do things for free.” Lane could hear a smile in Evan’s voice when he said, “And I get his room.”
Dr. Hodges chuckled and said, “Your little brother’s quite a talker.” All Lane could say, with his mouth full of anesthetic, was, “Tell me about it.”
In the next cubicle, the assistant said, “Evan, we’re all done. If you want, you can wait for your brother here.”
“Okay,” Evan answered cheerfully. “I brought my Friend with me. Do you get the Friend?” Without waiting for her to answer, he continued, “I don’t think the dentist gets it because I didn’t see it with the magazines in the waiting room.”
Lane didn’t think the assistant understood Evan because she said, “Your friend, huh? What’s his name?”
Evan patiently explained, “No, the Friend isn’t a person; it’s a magazine for kids about my church. There are magazines for big people, too. You can look at mine and see what’s in it. There are stories and games. I was trying to find all the stuff hidden in this picture.”
Lane could hear the assistant putting instruments away and moving around in the cubicle. Lane’s attention quickly became focused on his own mouth as Dr. Hodges carefully drilled out his cavities and applied the fillings.
Evan was still talking. “My brother is going to explain about the Church on his mission to people like you who don’t know about it. You’d really like it. We learn about Jesus and how to be like him. I have my own Book of Mormon, but my grandma will give me a brand-new one with gold on the edges and my name on it when I get baptized. I think the dentist needs one in his waiting room. He can have my old one. I brought it to read the part about Jesus coming to America. My dad marked the place for me.”
Finally, the appointment was over. Lane tried one last time to talk to the assistant. “Sorry about my little brother,” he said, flashing his clean teeth in what he hoped was a brilliant smile, though he could feel only half his mouth curve upward. “He’s really a chatterbox.”
“No problem,” the girl said. “I think he’s cute.”
Lane refrained from asking what she thought of Evan’s older brother, though he was tempted. He hoped she thought he was cute, too.
She said, “Going to Argentina, huh?”
“Yes,” Lane said, quickly adding, “I’ll only be gone for two years. Do you plan to work here for a while?” She smiled and left to clean more teeth.
Evan picked out a toy dinosaur from the dentist’s treasure chest, then told Dr. Hodges, “I’m leaving you this book for your waiting room.” He held out his Book of Mormon to show him. “It doesn’t cost you anything.”
Dr. Hodges looked puzzled but nodded his consent and then went to attend to a patient.
On the way home, Evan suggested they stop at the store for some candy, but Lane said no. “You want to undo all the work we just had done? That’s how you get cavities! You keep it up and the only thing you’ll be able to eat will be soup.”
They rode in silence for a split second. “Is that how you got all your cavities?” Evan asked.
After the baptism, Evan changed into dry clothes and was talking to his grandpa when he looked to the back of the room and started waving furiously. “Hey! You came!”
Lane was startled to see Dr. Hodges standing near the back. Evan called out, “Hey, he’s my dentist!”
The boys and their parents made their way to Dr. Hodges and told him they were glad to see him. Dr. Hodges smiled at Evan and said, “You were right, Evan. You didn’t drown.”
To Evan’s parents, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my coming. My sister has been writing to me about the Book of Mormon, and she has been talking about getting baptized. Evan invited us to come to his baptism when he was at the office last week, and I wanted to see what your church was about. I’ve known your family for years, and I know you’re good people, but I didn’t realize you were Mormon until Evan brought in his Book of Mormon and told us about your church.”
He spoke to Evan again. “I hope you don’t mind that I took your Book of Mormon home with me. I’ve really enjoyed reading it.”
After they got home, Evan came into Lane’s room, where Lane was packing his suitcase. Lane had been quietly getting ready to go to the Missionary Training Center, thinking about Evan’s baptism. He was feeling ashamed. He had had plenty of opportunities to talk about the Church at the dentist’s office and didn’t. He was too busy hanging onto the last shred of his social life before leaving. He had thought it would be hard to be a missionary because he didn’t know what to say to people. But wasn’t missionary work just getting the word out and being happy about having the gospel, like Evan? It was that simple.
“Hey, buddy,” Lane said, hugging his little brother, “you are one terrific missionary. Think you might fit into my suitcase? I could be your junior companion.”

Illustration by Melissa Manwill
When I was nine, my brother Leif got really sick. He went to the hospital. My mom told my sister and me that my brother had leukemia, a blood cancer. We prayed that my brother would be OK.
My dad stayed at the hospital with my brother. Two days later we drove to the hospital to see Leif. It was the first time I’d seen him since he was diagnosed. My grandma and grandpa were there helping. When I walked in, my brother was on a bed with many tubes and needles connected to his arms. I gave him a hug and began to cry. But I felt the Spirit with me. Heavenly Father was comforting me. He gave me love and support.
As we drove home from the hospital, the Spirit was still with me. I’m thankful that Heavenly Father blessed my family and my brother in many ways. The members of my ward helped our family. And my schoolteachers showed kindness to me. I felt the love of Heavenly Father through many people.
Leif has had a lot of struggles with his leukemia. Prayer and family and ward fasts have helped him so much. Leif has two years left of chemo treatment, but he has made it through the first and hardest year.
Heavenly Father sends the Holy Ghost to comfort you in times of need and inspires friends and family to help you.

“Can you tell me what talents Taylor has that I could share with the class?” my eight-year-old’s Primary teacher asked me. She had telephoned because Taylor’s class would be talking about talents they had received from Heavenly Father.
My mind went blank. I thought back over the past eight years, trying to come up with an answer. At four days old Taylor had suffered a stroke that left him with profound brain damage and an uncontrollable seizure disorder. He is unable to see, speak, or communicate. He has never progressed past a six-month-old child’s level of mental development. He spends most of his days in a wheelchair as we care for him and try to keep him comfortable.
We cheered when he learned to giggle or drink from a special cup, and we celebrated when he could stand and take a few steps. But while we cheered and celebrated on the outside, on the inside we wept with the realization that these small achievements were probably as significant as any Taylor would attain. Somehow I didn’t think this was what his Primary teacher wanted to hear.
I cleared my throat and uncomfortably answered, “Taylor really doesn’t have any talents that I can think of.”
This kind sister then forever altered my relationship with my son by her response.
“As I thought about this lesson, I realized that every child of God has a talent,” she said. “I would suggest that Taylor’s talent is that he teaches others to serve. If it is OK with you, I would like to talk to our class about how I have noticed Taylor’s talent here at church. I have seen the other Primary children learn to push his wheelchair, open doors for him, and overcome their fear to wipe his chin with a handkerchief when needed. I think that is a great talent by which he blesses our lives.”
I murmured in agreement, and we quietly said good-bye. I wonder if that Primary teacher knew what a profound impact that conversation would have on my life. Taylor remained the same. He still requires a great deal of care. Hospitals, doctors, and therapists still take up a large part of my life. But my perspective changed, and I began to notice his talent.
I saw how people around us would alter their behavior as they sought to care for him. I also noticed how he reminds us to slow down, notice his needs, and become more compassionate, observant, and patient.
I do not know God’s purpose in having Taylor face such daunting challenges, but I believe that his Primary teacher gave me a small glimpse of it. He is here to share his talent with us. He is here to give us the opportunity to learn how to serve.

During the January 2017 worldwide devotional for young adults, I challenged those watching to increase their testimony of the Savior by taking time each week to:
Study everything Jesus said and did as recorded in the Old Testament.
Study His laws as recorded in the New Testament.
Study His doctrine as recorded in the Book of Mormon.
Study His words as recorded in the Doctrine and Covenants.
I promised those listening that if they would proceed to learn all they can about Jesus Christ, their love for Him and for God’s laws would grow beyond what they could currently imagine.
What I didn’t mention during this address was that I knew this promise was true because I was in the midst of completing this very same assignment myself for the first time.
On December 1, 2016, I obtained a new set of scriptures and proceeded to begin the same assignment that I would later extend to young adults in January. When I finished the assignment six weeks later, I had looked up and marked more than 2,200 citations from the four books of scripture.1
After six weeks of study, President Nelson completed his assignment.
For me, to be able to accomplish this assignment was just thrilling!
Something I found to be most insightful was that the Savior was telling us about Himself through these various periods of time—Old Testament, New Testament, the Restoration period, and our day. In all books of scripture, the story is the same and the Storyteller is the same.
I have devoted much of my 93 years to learning about the Savior, but rare are the occasions when I have been able to learn as much as I did over this six-week study period. In fact, I learned so much about Him from this study that I am planning to share much of it in other upcoming addresses that I am currently preparing.2
Upon beginning this assignment, I didn’t expect that this study would help me to receive a new testimony of the divinity of the work of Joseph Smith—but it did! The revelations recorded by Joseph Smith and the insights found in the Bible are amazingly consistent. It was so enlightening for me to see this in my study.
Joseph Smith wouldn’t have possibly had time to correlate and cross-reference with the Bible at the rapid rate at which he was translating the Book of Mormon—but it’s all here!
So not only do I now have a greater testimony of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but I also have a reaffirmation of my absolute conviction that the system Joseph Smith had for translating the Book of Mormon was a gift from God.
President Nelson studied over 2,200 scriptures about Jesus Christ and His teachings.
Now, I realize some of you are probably thinking to yourselves that you couldn’t possibly have time to complete an assignment like this.
I know how you feel. I thought the same thing of myself—that there’s no way I can have time to do all of this. I needed to remind myself that a comment like this is not a faith-promoted comment. A faith-promoted comment would be “I know I don’t have time for this, but I’m going to make time for it. And I’ll fulfill it with what time I have.”
Each of us who takes this challenge will finish in our own time frames. For me, much of the joy of this came from getting it all done in just six weeks. This intense study over a relatively short period of time allowed me to appreciate the complementary nature of the learnings to be found in the Old Testament, the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, and the Doctrine and Covenants.
To those of you who feel you don’t have time, if you will make a sacrifice, you will be well rewarded and very, very grateful for the change of perspective, increased knowledge, and improved depth of your conversion. I know this is true because I have seen the same rewards in my own life.

I was born in Germany to good, caring parents who were members of the Church. During World War II, when my father was 10 years old, he was introduced to the gospel by a friend in Stettin, which is now part of Poland. Because of the war, there were no missionaries in Stettin at that time. After he accepted the gospel, my father taught his family, and they were converted. He later met my mother, who was also living in East Germany. There were no missionaries there either. My father taught my mother the gospel, and she accepted it. They were married and then moved to West Germany shortly before I was born.

It all started when Brandon, my two-year-old brother, got in the fridge and began dropping eggs onto the kitchen floor. Actually, things had been pretty crazy all morning. Mom, who is usually up and dressed by 7:00 every day, was still in her robe and slippers at noon, waiting for a chance to slip into the shower. The phone had been ringing all morning, the new baby was fussy, my little sister, Emily, had broken two glasses while setting the table for breakfast, Brandon had tried to be a “big helper” by washing out his oatmeal bowl in the toilet, and I had been whining all morning for Mom to drive me to my cousins’ house so that I could go roller-skating with them.
Mom had finally gotten the baby to sleep and was picking up the broken glass, when Brandon got into the eggs. Before she could do anything about him, the phone rang again. Sister Halvorson wanted to talk over Primary stuff with Mom, who is her first counselor. But Mom couldn’t hear a word she was saying, because Emily was prancing around, hollering that she needed to go to the bathroom. (The door was latched up high to keep Brandon from getting into it again.)
Mom told Sister Halvorson that she’d call back when things were calmer—in about fifteen years—and hung up. She dove for Brandon, who had run out of eggs and was trying to improve the color of the gooey mess on the floor by adding catsup, and called for me to unlatch the door for Emily.
But I was still mad about not being able to go roller-skating, so I just stood there pouting. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You get to do whatever you want whenever you want just because you’re a grown-up. I never get to do what I want. I wish I were the mom!”
That’s when it happened.
“Boingo!” Mom sang out, plopping Brandon back down in his egg and catsup concoction. “That’s it. I quit.” And with that, she turned and slid through the egg slime, out the back door, and calmly crawled inside the doghouse. (We had a large dog.)
I followed. Squatting, I peered in. “Mom, why are you in the doghouse?”
“Because I couldn’t climb the tree in my robe,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“Are you going to clean up the mess Brandon made?”
“No,” Mom replied sweetly. “I’m going to let you have your wish. Abbra-ka-doobra-ka-broccoli-boop!” she chanted, ceremoniously tapping my shoulders with the dog’s bone. “There! You are now officially ‘Mom’ for a while! You get to clean up the mess!”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “We’re going to switch roles. I read a book about this!”
“No, no. You wished to be a mom. I didn’t wish to be a kid again. I’ve been there. That’s not so easy, either. No, I think I’ll just be a dog today.”
“Oh! This is going to be fun!” I shouted, envisioning myself filling shopping carts with frozen pizzas and Popsicles, serving ice cream and doughnuts for supper, and staying up all night watching TV.
“But, Megan,” Mom interrupted my daydream, “you have to take the whole package. I’ll be fair and take care of the baby, but you’ve baby-sat Brandon and Emily before, and it’s time you learn that you can’t just take the freedom without taking the responsibility too. Understand?”
I nodded and waited for Mom to tell me to start by cleaning up Brandon and the eggs, but she just barked, circled around a couple of times on her hands and knees, and settled herself comfortably in the doghouse.
I hesitated a moment, then headed for the house. As I reached the back porch, Mom stuck her head out and called, “Please leave the door open so I can hear if the baby wakes up.” She barked again and disappeared.
One look at the kitchen was all I needed to repent real fast. All my wonderful visions of endless roller-skating and unlimited ice cream exploded like a blitzed video arcade target. Brandon had discovered a bowl of leftover spinach in the fridge and was gleefully draping the limp, greenish globs over his head as he jumped up and down in the catsup-streaked egg mixture.
I almost went right back out to the doghouse to beg Mom to forsake her canine ways and be the mom again, but I didn’t. Not because I was too stubborn to admit that I was wrong, but because I suddenly realized that being a grown-up really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And Mom was stuck with it twenty-four hours a day, whether she liked it or not. The least I could do was let her be a dog for a few hours.
I unlatched the door for Emily, checked on the baby, who was sleeping peacefully, then tackled the job of getting Brandon and the kitchen cleaned up. A couple of times I thought I saw Mom peeking in the window, but I wasn’t sure.
Sopping up all those eggs gave me a lot of time to think about what Mom had said about freedom and responsibility. I was still getting used to the idea that maybe grown-ups sometimes got tired of being grown-up. I guess we all need a break sometimes, no matter who we are, I mused. I remembered reading in the New Testament that even Jesus had grown weary on occasion and had gone into the mountains where he could be alone for awhile.
I was fixing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Emily and Brandon, when I remembered that Mom hadn’t even had any breakfast—someone had come to the door just as she was about to eat her bowl of cereal, and by the time she got back, it was soggy.
With great care I made a sandwich for Mom, adding extra grape jelly, which I knew she adored. I carried the sandwich outside and knelt down by the doghouse. “Shall I put this in the doggy dish, or will this plate do?” I asked, giving Mom a big “everything is OK” wink.
Mom winked back. Then she crawled out of the doghouse, yawned, stretched, and brushed the dog hair off her robe. “Now that’s what I call a good vacation!” she declared, taking the sandwich and marching toward the house.
When Dad got home from work that evening, I took him aside and told him all about Mom’s morning. He was extra helpful that night. After dinner, while Dad was helping Emily and Brandon with their prayers and getting them to bed, I sat by Mom on the sofa as she nursed the baby.
“Megan, why don’t you call your cousins and tell them I’ll drop you and your roller skates off for a few hours in the morning,” she said, putting her free arm around me.
I thought for a moment before answering. “Thanks, Mom, but there’s something else I need to do tomorrow. I think I’ll give that old doghouse a good cleaning. After all—” I grinned— “you never know when you might need it again!”

One day, I was playing at a friend’s house. He took me to the next-door neighbor’s, and we destroyed some of his flowers.
The next day, my mom found out from the neighbor, an elderly man who lives alone after his wife died, what we had done. She told us that it was very wrong to do that. She told me that I had to make things better. She called it repentance.
She helped me write a letter to the man, apologizing for destroying his flowers. We also made him some banana bread. Then she told me that I had to take it to him. I was very scared, so my mom came with me.
When the man answered the door, I said that I was sorry and gave him the letter and banana bread. He was very surprised and happy that I had come. I felt very good after that.
My mom taught me a good lesson about how I must repent, no matter how hard it is, when I do something wrong.
Kye Heimonen, age 5Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada

When I was about nine years old and attending elementary school here in Salt Lake City, all of the youth in the city’s schools were asked to fill out a form indicating what we wanted to be when we grew up. The lists were then to be placed in a waterproof metal box and buried beneath a new flagpole which graced the entrance to the City and County Building grounds. Years later, the box was to be opened and its contents made available.
As I sat with pencil in hand, I thought of the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” Almost without hesitation, I wrote the word cowboy. At lunch that day I reported to my mother my response. I can almost see Mother now as she admonished me, “You get right back to school and change that to banker or lawyer!” I obeyed Mother, and all dreams of being a cowboy vanished forever.

He had only a few missions left to fly before his tour of duty ended, but welcomed his leave time, which he spent in Naples, Italy. While there, he sent a package and a letter home to his mother, which promised that “he knew the Gospel was true and that he was going to live it and was going to share it with his friends. He also sent his tithing home which included everything he owed, to bring it up to date.” Post was slow and uncertain during war time, so it would be weeks before his family received the letter and package.
In the meantime, on 7th July 1944, George H. Robinson’s plane was shot down over Klagenfurt, Austria, where he and his comrades were subsequently buried. The inscription on his gravestone reads: “Now he’s in the Lord’s safe keeping and wanted on the other side. Sadly missed."

In my first semester of teaching we were studying 3 Nephi 11, and, as we had done all semester, the students were taking turns reading aloud verses from our assigned reading. As you know, chapter 11 of 3 Nephi records the appearance of the resurrected Savior on the American continents. As we approached verse 15, it was the turn of a young freshman girl to read. I hardly knew her voice since she sat in the back and was too shy to participate. She began reading:

And it came to pass that the multitude went forth, and thrust their hands into his side, and did feel the prints of the nails in his hands and in his feet; and this they did do, going forth one by one until they had all gone forth, and did see with their eyes and did feel with their hands, and did know of a surety and did bear record. [3 Nephi 11:15]

Then she paused. She could no longer read. There was silence in the class. The other students and I recognized that the peaceful spirit of the Holy Ghost was manifesting to her that what she was reading really did happen. Our Savior did appear in the Western Hemisphere. The Book of Mormon was true.

Several weeks later I was grading the final exams. I came to the exam of this young freshman girl. On the last page she had written: “Brother Farnsworth, thanks for asking me to read in 3 Nephi that day.”