Gospel Story Finder

His contribution to the Reader’s Digest, where he casts himself as the sailor, reads in part:
“The Right Time at Home:
“One evening in Albany, New York, I asked a sailor what time it was. He pulled out a huge watch and replied, ‘It’s 7:20.’ I knew it was later. ‘Your watch has stopped, hasn’t it?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m still on Mountain Standard Time. I’m from southern Utah. When I joined the Navy, Pa gave me this watch. He said it’d help me remember home.
“‘When my watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rollin’ out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30 I know the whole family’s around a well-spread table, and Dad’s thankin’ God for what’s on it and askin’ Him to watch over me … ,’ he concluded. ‘I can find out what time it is where I am easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in Utah.’”8

I was 14 years old when I experienced my first Christmas without snow. My family had just moved from the mountains of Utah to Texas, USA. To me, Texas felt too flat and hot. It was hard to feel the Christmas spirit when I had no friends at my new school and especially when there was no snow on the ground. I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere, so I often felt lonely and sad.
Despite my gloom, Christmas was only a week away, and I was depending on our Christmas family traditions to lift my spirits. The fun activities my family did together in past years always made me feel so happy. Traditions were a big part of how we celebrated Christmas, so I thought I had nothing to worry about. They were called traditions for a reason, so I knew they had to be kept.
The days leading up to Christmas crawled by slowly. We hadn’t done anything together as a family yet to celebrate, so I was feeling pretty defeated. When Christmas Eve finally arrived, I waited all day for something to happen—anything that would show me that our cherished family traditions could still be kept in our new home. I’m sure I could have spurred these treasured traditions on my own, but I didn’t want to. In a way, I was looking for a sign to show me that the Christmas spirit was still alive.
Day faded to night and I grew more and more upset. Tears welled up in my eyes as my family gathered together to say our evening prayers. My entire home felt cold and empty, even with all of us living inside it. Suddenly, my dad pierced the silence with one question.
“Would anyone like to receive a priesthood blessing?”
My heart skipped a beat. I had worried so much about whether or not we would be putting up Christmas lights or baking holiday cookies that I had forgotten about one very special tradition we did every Christmas Eve—we all received a priesthood blessing. Receiving a blessing from my dad in the past always gave me peace, but not everybody in my family enjoyed receiving one. Sometimes my siblings and my mom would say they didn’t feel like they needed one. I didn’t want to get my hopes up again if everyone else was going to turn it down.
But this time was different. My mom stood up and sat down on the chair my dad had brought out for us.
“I would like one,” she said softly.
We were all very surprised, but my dad didn’t even hesitate. He placed his hands on my mom’s head and began to speak. I could sense how tuned in my dad was to my mom’s feelings and personal struggles. He spoke words of comfort and peace to her during this time of change.
I suddenly felt a burning sensation within my chest—almost like someone had lit a match inside of me. I knew I was feeling the Holy Ghost, even though the burning in my chest wasn’t the way I had always felt the Spirit before. It was like Heavenly Father was speaking directly to me, and it wasn’t even my priesthood blessing!
As my father quietly said “amen” and I opened my tear-filled eyes, I realized that my whole family was crying. We had all heard the Spirit speak to us in a tender and loving way that everything was going to be OK. My mom and dad hugged, and I felt like the raincloud that had been hanging over my head for so long had finally given way to sunshine.
We all received blessings, including me. In my blessing the Lord reassured me He is always mindful of me and wants me to be happy. It gave me feelings of peace and warmth that I hadn’t felt since I moved to Texas.
We may not have kept every tradition that year, but we always remembered how it felt to witness the power of God flow through my dad’s priesthood blessing. I will always remember how it changed my feelings of sadness to peace and joy. I also learned a valuable lesson about the power of the priesthood. When everything around you seems to be going the wrong way, a priesthood blessing can remind you of the Lord’s watchful and loving presence in your life.

Sharing the gospel on my mission was such a rewarding experience for me that I wanted to continue doing it after I got home to Peru. But I soon realized that I didn’t have the time I needed to reach all the people I wanted to, like I did on my mission.
So I turned to social media.
I created a blog to share my mission experiences, my thoughts from my weekly Come, Follow Me study, and other gospel-related insights with others. And as I shared my blog, I started receiving sweet messages from friends thanking me for sharing. I didn’t expect that! So then I thought: “Why can’t I do more on social media?” And that’s how my path to creating a gospel-sharing platform on Instagram and YouTube began.

I didn’t notice her at first. She was merely a part of the sea of people milling about the reception hall. Then she stepped forward and, struggling for the right English words, pointed to her heart and said, “When you sing, you have a love.”

I looked into her red, tear-swollen eyes and smiled the warmest “Thank you” I could muster. I couldn’t speak. My heart was in my throat.

Looking around the hall, I could see that the other members of the BYU A Cappella Choir were having similar experiences. We were at Kibbutz Chatzerim in the middle of Israel’s Negev Desert. The love of the gospel of Jesus Christ expressed through song had bridged the gap of culture, language, and religion to touch the hearts of these people. It was our first concert in Israel and the beginning of a tour that, through music, would take the message of the Restoration to thousands of Jewish people.

Five-year-old Jodi loved to sing, especially Primary songs. She and her older sister, Mickell, were often asked to sing for programs and for other special occasions in their ward and community.
One afternoon Mom received a phone call from Sister Crofts. As she hung up the phone, Mom said, “Sister Crofts has invited our family and a few other families from our ward to go to the care center where her father lives to hold a special family home evening.”
“What is a care center?” Jodi wanted to know.
“A care center is a place where people live who need nurses and other trained people to help care for them. Sister Crofts would like us to do some musical numbers there. She also said that maybe our families could go to the public indoor swimming pool after the program.”
Jodi’s eyes lit up with excitement. “That sounds like fun! Can we go? Please?”
“We’ll have to ask the rest of the family what they think, but I feel sure that everyone will agree.”
The rest of the week, Mom helped Jodi and Mickell prepare two of their favorite Primary songs for the program. Soon the special day arrived.
Jodi felt nervous as she walked into the large room at the care center. She thought that most of the people looked very old because they had gray hair and many of them sat in wheelchairs. Some of them glanced up and smiled at her, but some of them looked sad.
Jodi’s family quietly found a place to sit until their turn to sing. Jodi soon realized that the girl sitting next to her wasn’t very old. But she looked different from anyone Jodi had seen before. She wore a helmet on her head and a large towel was tied around her neck. Jodi noticed that the girl could only use one side of her body. She could not talk, either, but she did make some happy-sounding noises when she heard the music.
A nurse explained that the girl and her mother had been in a car accident a few years before. The mother had been killed, and the girl had suffered severe brain damage. She had to wear the helmet to protect her head, and she had to keep a towel around her neck because she did not have very much control over her body and often drooled. The nurse told them that the girl enjoyed listening to music, and she loved having children come to visit.
Jodi felt sad to think that the girl had lost her mother and that she had been hurt so badly in the accident.
Jodi and Mickell sang their very best, and they were happy that nearly everyone in the room looked up and smiled at them as they sang, and clapped loudly as they finished. One lady even shouted, “Beautiful! Beautiful!”
Jodi felt very warm inside and was happy that her family had come that night.
Sister Crofts thanked Jodi’s family for helping with family home evening. She said that her father and the others had enjoyed the program and were glad that they had come.
After leaving the care center, the group ate a picnic and then enjoyed a few hours of swimming at the indoor pool. It had been a great family home evening!
That night as Mom was helping her get ready for bed, Jodi said, “I had fun singing for those people at the care center, but I felt bad for some of them.”
Mother smiled as she put her arm around Jodi. “It was wonderful that we could sing for them, but we probably should have taken the time to give each one of them a hug. There are some people who don’t have anyone to give them hugs.”
“I like hugs.”
“Everyone needs hugs.” Mom gave Jodi a hug that only mothers can give. Then, noticing the look of concern that crossed Jodi’s face, she asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Mom,” Jodi said in a hesitant voice. “I don’t think I could have hugged that girl I sat by.”
Mom smiled at Jodi’s honesty. “Jodi, do you think Jesus would hug that girl?”
Jodi thought for a moment. “I know that Jesus would hug her. He loves everyone.”
Mom smiled and asked Jodi to follow her to the piano in the family room. She opened Children’s Songbook to pages 140–41, one of Jodi’s favorite songs. As her mom played, Jodi sang:
“If you don’t walk as most people do,
Some people walk away from you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do,
Some people talk and laugh at you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.
Jesus walked away from none.
He gave his love to ev’ryone.
So I will! I will!”
That gave Jodi something to think about. “Thanks, Mom,” Jodi said as she gave her mother a hug and a kiss. Then she went to say her prayers before climbing into bed.
The next morning, Jodi jumped up with excitement and ran to find Mom. “I had the best dream last night! It was a very happy one about that girl I sat by. And in my dream, I gave her a hug! May we please go to the care center again soon?”
“I think that’s a great idea!” Mom said with a smile.

Mary thought about Mom and Grandma looking at temples together. “And what about Dad? How old was he when he got baptized?”
“He was 11.”
“And he lived in Brazil then?”
“That’s right,” said Mom. “There are people all over the world learning about Jesus and baptism. Lots of them are pioneers.”
“Pioneers?”
“A pioneer is someone who is the first to do something,” Mom explained.
Mary thought about that. “Like how you were the first person in your family to get baptized?”
Mom nodded and smiled.
Just then, Dad walked into the room and squished onto the sofa.
“Dad, were you a pioneer for your family?”
“Sort of. After I was baptized, I found out Grandma Rosimere was already a member of our church! But she hadn’t gone in years.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I started going to church. Then my brothers started going, then Grandma Rosimere too. Even Great-Grandma Marluce joined!”
Mary imagined Dad going to church by himself, then bringing more of his family with him.
“Wow,” Mary said. “I like hearing your stories. They make me even more excited to be baptized.”
“Thanks for asking us all these questions, Mary,” Dad said. “Now can we ask you one?”
Mary nodded. What would they ask?
“Why do you want to be baptized?”
Mary thought about what she learned from the scriptures and how she felt at church. “Because I want to follow Jesus and be with my family forever.”
Mom and Dad both smiled, and Mary tackled her parents in a hug. “I can hardly wait!”

Lincoln lived with his family in Santiago, Chile, until his mother died when he was 10. Afterward, he lived with his aunt and uncle. When Lincoln was 18, Elder Barton and Elder Bentley came to his aunt and uncle’s home. Lincoln’s aunt and grandmother immediately accepted the gospel, but Lincoln avoided the missionaries. One Sunday morning, his normally gentle grandmother came to his room, ripped the quilt off his bed, and told him he was going to church with them. Shocked by his grandmother’s unusual behavior and out of respect for her, he got up and went to church. That day he felt something new and powerful within his soul that changed his life. He soon became one of the Church’s first converts in Chile.

After the temple vows were spoken, after the pictures of the bride and groom were taken outside on the snowy grounds of the Idaho Falls Temple, after Steve and Cathy changed into warm sweaters and ski slacks for their trip, after parting hugs and kisses with parents—finally they were alone, Mr. and Mrs. Steve Holland, driving north for a three-day honeymoon at his uncle’s cabin in Montana.
“I’m a married lady!” she burst out suddenly a few miles out of Idaho Falls. “I’m somebody’s wife!”
“You sure are,” he smiled.
“I’m so happy! It’s all come true—my greatest dream. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been praying that some day I’d be married in the temple. And it’s come true.”
She snuggled close to him. “Steve, when you were in high school, did you ever think about who you’d marry?”
“Sure. I remember I used to look through each month’s issue of the New Era. I’d find a picture of a really neat-looking girl, and I’d think to myself, maybe she’ll be my wife someday. And for that whole month I’d have her picture on my wall and I’d try to do the things she’d want me to do. I was true to her—until the next issue.”
“You’ve never told me that before,” she said.
He grinned and reached out to touch her cheek. “I guess there’s still a few things we don’t know about each other. I bet you don’t even know what my favorite food is.”
“Hamburger,” she answered quickly.
“No.”
“Steve, that’s all you ever ate in your apartment at school.”
“But it’s not my favorite.”
“Steak? Pizza? Spaghetti?”
“Sorry,” he teased.
Suddenly she looked at him as if he were a total stranger. “You’re kidding!”
“No. It’s ham and lima beans.”
“Oh,” she said, moving away from him so she could take off her ski parka. She stayed on her side of the car.
They entered Rexburg. Steve drove around the Ricks College campus, savoring the bustling energy of students changing classes, and then drove back on to the highway north.
She didn’t say much for a long time. Finally she asked, “Steve, are you even just a bit apprehensive?”
“Maybe I am—just a little.”
“Me, too,” she confessed, “just a little. When I saw those girls at Ricks, I realized that I’ve left that for good. I’ll never be a coed again. I guess that sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
It was several miles before she could ask him, “What are you apprehensive about?”
He reached for her hand. “Not about you, Cathy. I’m absolutely sure about my love for you.”
She let out a small sigh and moved closer to him.
“It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to that one big goal called temple marriage for so long, and somehow I’ve never pictured what happens in a marriage a week after the ceremony, or a year, or a decade. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she said. “It’s like those children’s stories where the handsome prince carries the fair maiden away to his castle. The end. But what do the fair maiden and the handsome prince do for the next 60 years?”
“They live happily ever after,” Steve said.
“We will, won’t we?” she asked with sudden concern in her voice.
“I hope so, Cathy. I really hope so.”
“Steve, you won’t die early, will you? Promise me you won’t.”
“This is our wedding day. We’re not supposed to think about death.”
“What if we have a baby that dies or is born a cripple? Steve, I couldn’t bear that. God won’t let it happen, will he?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“All of a sudden,” she said soberly, “marriage seems such a heavy responsibility.”
They rode in silence for several miles.
Finally Steve tried to break the somber mood they were in. “We’ll be at my uncle’s cabin in about three hours. It’ll be great! My uncle told me they went up last night to get it ready for us. They’ve got enough firewood split for four days, and they’ve filled the refrigerator with food.”
“It sounds nice,” she said quietly.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked her.
“There’s one thing I need to ask you. Can we start even the first day of our marriage with family prayer at night?”
“I promise,” he answered.
Then the spell was broken. She sat very close to him and asked meekly, “Tell me how to cook lima beans and ham.”
They continued north, finally crossing the Idaho-Montana border.
“It looks like we might get a little snow,” he said, understating his concern at the snow clouds in front of them.
Ten miles from a small town, the red alternator light flashed on. He thumped the glass to see if he could get it to turn off, but it stayed lit.
“It’s probably nothing, but we’ll have to stop at the next town and have somebody look at it.”
By the time they reached the four-store town, the snow was coming down heavily. They pulled into the gas station and parked. They went in, and Steve explained the problem to the attendant, who agreed to look at it as soon as he finished another car.
Steve and Cathy waited in the office, walking around restlessly, idly reading the instructions on oil additives. The room smelled of stale cigars. A desk in the corner of the office was strewn with piles of paper.
Two men, laughing loudly, stumbled across the road from the bar and entered the station.
“Hank? Where are you?” one of them yelled, taking off his cowboy hat and revealing a nearly bald scalp.
“Hank?Come on, close up! Come with us over to Pete’s Place. We’ll buy you a drink,” the other called. His stomach protruded well beyond the confines of his wide western belt.
They both walked into the garage part of the station. “You’re not going to get much business tonight. There’s a big storm coming. We heard it on the radio.”
“Just one more job and I’ll close it down,” the mechanic replied.
“We’ll wait.” The one who was paunchy stayed in the garage, but the other sat down on the chair in front of the desk, propped his feet on the desk, and took a long drink from his can of beer.
“You folks going far?” he asked.
“Just to Big Sky,” Steve answered.
“Glad it’s not me traveling tonight. Big storm coming. You’d better stay here tonight. That other guy—his name is Oscar—he runs the Star Motel. Gives winter rates, too. Of course,” he said with a wink, “maybe you’re not married.”
“We’re married,” Cathy said firmly. “We were married today.”
“No kidding? Hey, Oscar,” he yelled, “come here!”
The second man stepped into the office.
“Oscar, these good people just got hitched today. Now I told ’em that they ought to stay at your place instead of bucking the storm. How about it?”
“You bet! You can have my best room. The TV works, and I’ll even throw in some free donuts and coffee in the morning.”
“No,” Steve answered firmly. “We’ll be going on.”
Oscar drifted back out to talk with the mechanic, but the other man sat down again and opened another can.
“You got a dog?” he finally asked Steve.
“No.”
“Well, let me tell you something. You get yourself a dog before your wife gets too set in her ways.”
“You like dogs?” he asked Cathy.
“They’re okay.”
“They’re a lot better than okay,” the man said. “A dog’ll never let you down, never complains when you don’t get home on time.” Fumbling for his wallet, he pulled out a picture and handed it to Steve. “Ain’t she something? She’s real pretty, huh?”
“Yes,” Steve answered.
“She’s part German shepherd and part wolf. But you know what?” the man continued. “My wife hates that dog. It’s her own fault, too.”
He bent the empty can in two and tossed it into the already full wastepaper basket. He wiped his mouth and continued his story. “My wife’s got false teeth. When the dog was just a pup, my wife left the teeth on the kitchen table overnight. Well, you know how pups are when they’re young. When we got up next morning, there were pieces of false teeth all over the place. That pup chewed up my wife’s teeth! Ain’t that something?” He reared back in his chair, laughing crazily.
The laughing brought Oscar from the garage; he added some other details about how long it took to get another set of false teeth and how his friend’s wife wouldn’t go out in public until they came. That started them both laughing again.
“You just got hitched, huh?” Oscar asked. “Well, it’s too late to help you now, boy!” he joked. Placing his hand on Steve’s shoulder, he said, “Let me give you a little advice. Lay the law down right at first. Because if you don’t, she’s gonna run all over you.”
“I told ’em he ought to get him a dog right off,” the other man added.
“That’s good advice, real good advice.”
A few minutes later the mechanic was done with the other car. He had Steve pull his car into the vacant stall in the garage.
When he walked back into the office from the garage, he found that Cathy was outside, huddled by the door, her parka hood zipped up, tears in her eyes, staring out at the snow.
“You’ll get cold out here,” he said, putting his arm around her.
“I had to get away from there. To those men their wives are the enemy. What went wrong in their marriages?”
“It won’t happen to us.”
“Steve, it’s only been six hours since we were in the temple, and now look where we are.”
After a few minutes of work by the mechanic, they were back on the road.
The storm seemed much worse after leaving the security of the lights of the small town. The entire road was completely covered with snow so that it became difficult to judge where the center line was.
Steve leaned forward, his arms and back tense as he nervously concentrated on driving. Darting swirls of snow raced across the road.
A car suddenly jumped out of the swirling snow coming toward them. Steve tried to judge where the center line would be if he could see it.
The car was heading directly toward them. “Get over!” Steve yelled. He cranked the wheel hard to the right to avoid a collision, and the car breezed by, tossing up a giant cloud of snow into the air.
They were off the shoulder of the road. Steve gunned the engine, trying to power out of the slope, but the back wheels spun, causing the back end to slide farther down the slope. In order to correct for that, he steered the car farther down the incline. The snow brought them finally to an almost gentle stop.
He slammed his fist at the steering wheel in frustration. Turning to her, he asked, “You okay?”
“I’m all right.”
He got out of the car and walked around it. The snow was above his knees. Opening the trunk of his car, he rummaged around until he found a small shovel that he used for camping.
He walked to the front of the car and began to furiously scoop up small mounds of snow.
Suddenly she was next to him. “Steve, stop. It’s snowing faster than you can shovel.”
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Look, I’m not some helpless glass doll that you have to handle carefully or I’ll break. I’m your wife, and I go with you wherever you go—into the temple, or into run-down gas stations, and, if it happens, into snow banks.”
“I should’ve listened to that man in the gas station. We should’ve stayed in his crummy motel. But no, I have to have my grandiose schemes. What a dumb thing. You married an idiot.”
“We’re both alive, the car’s okay, so what’s the big deal?”
He looked at her, surprised at her strength. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she barked out in a fake gangster voice. “And another thing, quit knocking the man I married because I love him.” She snuggled close and kissed him.
“Steve, I’m part of this marriage, too. I can help out.”
“How can you help out now?” he asked, amused by the thought of her pulling the car out of the snow.
“By telling you that while you were putting on that impressive snow shoveling demonstration, I thought I saw a light through the trees back there.”
“Oh,” was all he said.
They started toward the light seen just faintly through the trees. It was a small house. There was a look of severity about the place, as if something had forced a style of life that was ordered but without joy.
They stood on the porch and knocked. “Cathy, if we can help it, let’s not tell them we just got married. I can’t stand any more free advice.”
“You ought to get a dog,” she mimicked.
A porch light flashed on, exposing them to unseen inspection. The door opened a crack. “What do you want?” a man’s voice asked harshly.
“Our car went into the ditch. My wife and I need some help.”
Seconds passed. “Martin, ask ’em in,” a woman’s voice chided.
A man opened the door, allowing them just enough room to enter. He was a giant of a man, his face roughened and carved by years of being outdoors.
“What do you want from us?” he asked suspiciously.
“If you have a tractor, could you pull us out?”
“I’ve got a tractor, but I’m not pulling you out tonight.”
“Why not?” Steve asked.
“We just heard on the radio that they’ve pulled off the highway crews. They advise no travel.”
“We’ve only got another 20 miles to go.”
“Look. I’m not pulling you out just to have you go over the canyon ten miles from here.”
“We’ve got to get to my uncle’s place tonight,” Steve said, feeling his temper mount. “So how do we get there?”
“You don’t. Not tonight. You don’t know this country like I do.”
The woman, thin and plain and eroded by her fight against the sterile land, stepped out of the shadows of the dimly lit room.
“You’re welcome to stay with us. Aren’t they, Martin?”
“I don’t see what else they can do,” he mumbled.
“They could stay in David’s room.”
“No! They aren’t staying there!” the man erupted. “It’s his room!”
“Martin, it’s been 15 years!” she complained.
“Don’t get me mad, Ella. The answer is no!” He hurried to a coatrack and put on a heavy sheepskin coat. “I’m going to chop some more wood,” he said, biting off the words.
Steve stole a quick glance at Cathy.
The woman walked to the door and looked at the footprints left by her husband. She turned around slowly, a strange heaviness in her eyes. As she saw Steve and Cathy standing in the middle of the room, she took on the role of hostess. “I’m sorry. Let me get your coats. Please sit down. I’m Mrs. Gibson.”
They talked for several minutes about the weather. Finally Mrs. Gibson asked, “How long have you been married? My guess is less than a week.”
They both grinned sheepishly. “Does it show that much?”
“When a girl twists her wedding ring like that, I think it means that she hasn’t been wearing it long.”
“We were married today in Idaho Falls,” Steve said, taking hold of Cathy’s hand.
“Look,” she said, brightening up, “let me fix you a little snack in the kitchen and then we can talk. Would you like to play some records? They’re old, but you might like some of them.”
She picked up some old 78 rpm records from a shelf and placed them on a coffee table in front of Cathy and Steve. “These are records of Glenn Miller. Martin and I used to play them when we were first married. That was a long time ago, during the Second World War. By the way, do you like tuna fish?”
She went into her kitchen to work. Steve put a few of the records on the phonograph.
“Do you know where I met Martin?” she asked them, coming to the kitchen entrance to talk. “At the five and ten store in Missoula. I was only 18 then. He was home from the army on a 30-day leave. It was a couple of days before Valentine Day, and I was working at the jewelry counter. After about a half an hour, he finally picked out something. He thrust it into my hand, paid for it, and asked if I’d gift wrap it. Well I did, but when I gave it to him, he just looked down, shook his head, gave it back, and mumbled, ‘It’s for you.’ And that was the beginning. Since he was going overseas in just a few weeks, we ended up getting married before he left.”
They listened to the records while they ate their snack.
“When Martin came back from the war, he worked at various jobs for a few years, and then we got a chance to get this place. It had belonged to his father. We’ve been here ever since.”
After the last record on the stack had played, she showed them the necklace. It was a tiny chain with a small silver heart in the middle. “I think it cost all of two dollars. Oh, there’s an inscription on the back. Can you still read it?”
“It says, ‘Love is forever.’” Cathy slowly read the worn inscription.
“I haven’t thought about that necklace for years.”
“I bet there are some grandchildren in your life,” Cathy said with a smile.
“No,” she said bleakly. “We had a son, David, but he was killed in Vietnam.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cathy said quickly.
“It’s been hardest on my husband. He needed to have grandchildren to show off the ranch to, but we’re all alone now. He can’t let go of the bitterness.”
She took the necklace into the bedroom and then returned to the kitchen. Steve and Cathy played some more records.
Mr. Gibson stayed busy outside until supper.
They had homemade soup and biscuits. Mr. Gibson hunched over his bowl and ate without much talking.
“Martin,” the woman said, uncomfortable with his silence, “they were just married today in Idaho Falls.”
He looked up briefly. “Are you from Idaho?”
“No, I’m from Montana and Cathy is from Nebraska.”
“Then why get married in Idaho?” he asked.
“We’re both members of the Mormon church. We were married in the Idaho Falls Temple.”
“Why there?”
Cathy tried to explain. “We believe that a wedding performed in a temple of our church can continue even after death. We wanted our marriage to last forever.”
The man sat up and glowered at her. “Nothing lasts forever. You’ll learn that soon enough, I reckon.”
“I’ve never been more certain of what I’m saying,” Cathy replied with a quiet firmness in her voice.
“Then you’re a fool!” the man said abruptly.
“Martin, that’s no way to talk to company,” the woman complained.
“Who invited ’em? I didn’t.”
“Martin!”
“What do they know about life? They’re just a couple of kids.”
“Please excuse him; he’s not used to company,” the woman said.
Mr. Gibson got up from his chair and walked over to Steve and Cathy. “You two come with me, and I’ll show you what life does to people and their ideas about forever.”
They followed him into a small back bedroom. The blinds were pulled, and there was only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was filled with pictures and trophies and sports equipment.
“Go ahead, look around.”
As they examined each picture, it was as if they were viewing the growth of a small boy into a young man—pictures of a three-year-old being held on a quarter horse by his proud father, a seven-year-old standing beside his father displaying a string of fish, a thirteen-year-old wearing a 4-H jacket and showing a hereford steer he had raised, a boy kneeling beside a trophy elk he had shot, a seventeen-year-old beside a cute girl in a formal gown, a proud graduate in a black cap and gown, a nineteen-year-old in front of the small white house wearing an army uniform.
The last picture frame contained a telegram announcing the boy’s death in combat in Vietnam.
“It took us 19 years to raise him,” the man said bleakly, “but they killed him in one second with a land mine.”
“We’re both sorry,” Cathy said.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” the man said bitterly. He reached down and picked up a fishing reel in his hand, turning it over slowly, studying it. “He was a good boy, and if he’d lived, by now he’d be married and have children, and I’d have some grandchildren, and life would have some meaning.”
He put the reel down on the shelf and turned to confront them. “Who remembers my boy anymore?”
They didn’t know what to say.
“Nobody does. Not anymore. This is all that’s left of him. What you see in this room. A few pictures and some ribbons from a county fair. And when my wife and I die, somebody will buy the house and toss it all away.”
He took a step toward them, his face in agony. “Now you tell me, where is this forever you keep harping about? Where is forever for my boy?”
Cathy threw her arms around him as if he were her grandfather. Steve could hear her crying. At first the man stood there mutely, his arms at his side, untouchable in his grief. But then, seeing that she shared his sorrow, he put an arm around her to comfort her.
A moment later she stepped back and said, “God loves your son. His body is destroyed but his spirit is alive. Someday his body and his spirit will come back together, and he will stand on this earth with a perfect body. I know that is true.”
He examined her face, searching for any insincerity, but he found none.
She continued, “God has commanded that temples be built so that we can help those who have died to receive the rich blessings they might have had if they’d lived. Your boy will live again.”
Somehow the despair that had filled the room lifted. Steve felt the sweet influence of the Holy Ghost bear witness to Cathy’s words.
The man looked at her upturned face for a long time and then simply said, “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Mr. Gibson,” Cathy said, “today I was in one of those temples. I’ve never been more certain that God loves all his children. He loves your son David.”
The man slowly nodded his head. “David was a good boy.” Then looking around and seeing for the first time that it was only a room, he said simply, “It’s cold in here, isn’t it? Let’s go in the living room and talk some more.”
Steve, with his mission experience, began to teach Mr. and Mrs. Gibson the gospel.
At 10:00 Mrs. Gibson invited them into the kitchen for a piece of cake she’d baked especially for Steve and Cathy. While they were eating, the electric power went out. They lit a candle and finished.
“Martin, it’s going to get cold tonight without our electric heater.”
“We can all stay by the fire and keep warm,” he said.
Huddled around the fire, with the wind howling outside, they continued to talk. At 2:00 A.M., Mrs. Gibson turned to her husband and asked, “Martin, what do you think?”
“It’s the first thing I’ve heard that makes any sense. We better learn more about it, though, before we join.”
Cathy burst out excitedly, “You and your wife and your son can be sealed together as a family forever! Steve and I want to go with you through the temple when you go!”
Mr. Gibson cleared his throat nervously and reached a little awkwardly for his wife’s hand. “Ella and me have been through a lot together. It’d be nice to be together forever.”
Finally they agreed that it was time for sleep. While Mr. and Mrs. Gibson went to get some blankets, Steve reached over and kissed Cathy. “You are a terrific missionary.”
“Wasn’t it special?” she asked happily. “I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.”
They sat and watched the fire. The embers that had been in the fire the longest glowed the deepest red.
“Cathy, are you still afraid of the future? We can’t guarantee that we won’t have the same unhappiness in our lives that they’ve had.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“If you knew now that I’d die in a few years, or that a baby would suffer sickness, would you walk away from our marriage?”
“I used to think that Heavenly Father would spare me that kind of trial,” she said.
“And now what do you think?”
“I think that a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ can help us live through whatever comes.”
“You’re not scared anymore?”
She shook her head thoughtfully. “Not anymore.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gibson returned to the fire, carrying some blankets. They pulled the couch and two chairs close to the fireplace. Mr. Gibson piled two large logs on the fire. Then he placed a small gift in Cathy’s hand. It was wrapped in tissue paper.
All he said was, “Don’t open it until you’re on your way tomorrow.”
A few minutes later Cathy whispered something to Steve. He nodded his head and then spoke to Mr. Gibson. “I promised my wife something about tonight. Would it be all right if we had family prayer?”
By the next morning the storm had let up, and by 11:00 they had managed to pull the car back on the highway. Shortly after that, Steve and Cathy were on their way.
Not until they were unloading their suitcases from the car into the cabin did Cathy remember the small package on the back seat. Unwrapping it, she found the old necklace with the words inscribed on the back—“Love is forever.”

Recently I had an engaging conversation with a young man who was contemplating a mission. As we talked, it became apparent that he was struggling with his decision, because he was questioning the strength of his testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He wanted to know why he had not received more clear answers to his prayers and study of the scriptures.
This young man, whom I will call Jim, was raised in the mission field in a home with loving parents who were doing their best to teach gospel principles to their children.
He is an outstanding athlete and popular among his friends at school. However, he is only one of a very few LDS students in a large high school.
Having raised my family in the mission field, I quickly related to Jim’s challenges of wanting to stay true to gospel principles while being accepted by good friends, yet friends whose values and beliefs generally differed from his.
He was looking for further confirmation of his testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel.
Today I speak to Jim and many others like him—young men and young women across the world who are unsure about their testimonies but very much want to develop strong, vibrant testimonies that will guide them through the shoals of life that lie ahead.
I also speak to those adults who have not yet felt deeply the spirit of the gospel in their lives. In the absence of a compelling testimony, some have let their daily thoughts and actions become so focused on the things of the world that they have minimized the influence of the light of the gospel in their everyday lives.
And then as Elder Neal A. Maxwell has so eloquently described, also included are those “‘honorable’ members who are skimming over the surface instead of deepening their discipleship and who are casually engaged rather than ‘anxiously engaged’ (D&C 76:75; D&C 58:27)” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1992, 89; or Ensign, Nov. 1992, 65).
As I attended the funeral services of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and Elder David B. Haight and listened to their well-deserved tributes, I more fully internalized the extraordinary examples of testimony and discipleship that the lives of these two great brethren demonstrated. I kept pondering how their examples could help strengthen our testimonies and deepen our resolve to come closer to Christ.
These two great disciples of Christ exemplify President Gordon B. Hinckley’s admonition to all of us when he said: “I have been quoted as saying, ‘Do the best you can.’ But I want to emphasize that it be the very best. We are too prone to be satisfied with mediocre performance. We are capable of doing so much better” (“Standing Strong and Immovable,” Worldwide Leadership Training Meeting, 10 Jan. 2004, 21).
Surely President Hinckley’s counsel and encouragement applies as much to the development and strengthening of our testimonies of Jesus Christ as to anything else.
True testimonies bring the light of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ into our lives and focus all of us toward the same goal of returning to our Father in Heaven—yet our individual testimonies come through varied experiences and at different stages in our lives.
Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.
I think Alma must have had us in mind as he was teaching the Zoramites how to gain testimonies of the truth:
“But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words” (Alma 32:27).
Alma then went on to “compare the word unto a seed.” He explained that as hearts are opened, “it will begin to swell within your breasts” (Alma 32:28). Alma then gave us the key to developing a successful testimony:
“But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life” (Alma 32:41).
And then the promise!
“Then, my brethren, ye shall reap the rewards of your faith, and your diligence, and patience, and long-suffering, waiting for the tree to bring forth fruit unto you” (Alma 32:43).
Think with me for a moment, brothers and sisters, about what Alma is teaching us.
First, we must have a sincere desire to believe. Phrases such as “awake,” “arouse your faculties,” “experiment,” and “exercise a particle of faith” are action words that suggest sustained effort on our part.
His description of the swelling in our breast describes the feeling of the Holy Spirit. And as Moroni promises, “By the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moro. 10:5).
To keep that Spirit growing, Alma says we must nourish it by “faith with great diligence, and with patience.” He then promises that the rewards of faith, diligence, patience, and long-suffering will bring forth everlasting life (Alma 32:41; see also Alma 32:43).
Like Alma, latter-day prophets have been clear in their teachings of the things we need to do to develop and strengthen our testimonies.
We have been sent here to work out our individual salvation through the tests and challenges of daily life. We cannot do that by relying heavily upon the borrowed light of someone else’s testimony. As we receive inspiration when we hear prophets, leaders, and peers bear their testimonies, those spiritual feelings should further enhance our desire to strengthen our own convictions.
To my young friend, and to all wherever you may be, never give up on the Lord. The answer to your prayers may not be as clear or as timely as you would like, but keep praying. The Lord is listening! As you pray, ask for help in understanding the promptings of the Holy Spirit. And then do your very best to be worthy to receive those promptings. As you recognize or feel the impressions and whisperings of the Spirit, then act upon them.
Daily fervent prayers seeking forgiveness and special help and direction are essential to our lives and the nourishment of our testimonies. When we become hurried, repetitive, casual, or forgetful in our prayers, we tend to lose the closeness of the Spirit, which is so essential in the continual direction we need to successfully manage the challenges of our everyday lives. Family prayer every morning and night adds additional blessings and power to our individual prayers and to our testimonies.
Personal, sincere involvement in the scriptures produces faith, hope, and solutions to our daily challenges. Frequently reading, pondering, and applying the lessons of the scriptures, combined with prayer, become an irreplaceable part of gaining and sustaining a strong, vibrant testimony.
President Spencer W. Kimball reminded us of the importance of consistent scripture reading when he said, “I find that when I get casual in my relationships with divinity and when it seems … no divine voice is speaking, … if I immerse myself in the scriptures the distance narrows and the spirituality returns” (The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 135).
The Savior taught, “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me” (John 5:39).
The strong, unwavering testimonies that so many of you wonderful, faithful members of the Church embrace have come from prayerfully following counsel from our prophets and the scriptures. That same priceless blessing is available to each of us who earnestly seek it.
To my young friend Jim, and all others who may have periodic concerns about the strength of their testimonies, know that you are loved and watched over daily by your Father in Heaven. He will respond as you strive to keep His commandments and reach out for His loving hand.
We all share the same promise that the Lord gave to the Prophet Joseph Smith: “Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you; seek me diligently and ye shall find me; ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 88:63).
Our prophet’s call to do our “very best” challenges each of us, individually and within our families, to carefully examine our personal lives and then commit to change those things which will more fully assure our testimonies are strong and secure.
Strong testimonies become the driving force for each of us to do “much better.” They become the impenetrable bulwark of armor that protects us from the unrelenting things of the world.
I bear my witness that we have a loving, caring Father in Heaven and that He and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to the boy Joseph to usher in the Restoration of the gospel in this last dispensation.
Jesus Christ heads this Church. President Gordon B. Hinckley is His chosen prophet.
May we have the courage and the conviction to follow the prophet’s counsel. As we do so, our personal testimonies will be secure. That this may be so I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was in grade school, my mom would pick me up from school every Wednesday so we could get a little exercise by swimming laps together. At first, I did not enjoy this. I had little to no athletic talent, and I only went because it meant I would not have to ride the bus home from school.

But I soon realized the benefits of this weekly appointment. My mom taught me how to strengthen my strokes, how to align my body in the water, and when to breathe. I found an unhurried rhythm as I pulled myself through the water.

Pull, pull, pull, breathe.

What I treasured the most, though, was the uninterrupted time with my mom. I never had to worry about keeping up with my more gifted peers or keeping track of the number of laps I swam. It was just my mom and me keeping a rhythm.

Not long ago, I started to swim again. Relearning the rhythm has been easy. Pull, pull, pull, breathe. The stillness of the experience has felt familiar and become a medicine for my often-frenzied mind. I have found that by finding a place where I can’t hear much of the noise around me, my thoughts are less susceptible to external influences.

During this dedicated time to myself, when I’m not reaching for my phone or checking things off my to-do list, I have seen just how valuable a still environment can be. Eliminating some of the excessive noises of my day-to-day life makes it much easier to turn my thoughts to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

And by regularly seeking out this quietness, I’ve been able to invite more frequent spiritual experiences into my life. Turning off my phone or stepping away from my daily tasks for a moment is a way for me to say, “Heavenly Father, I have prepared myself to draw closer to Thee. I’m ready to listen.”

Many times, as I wait and listen, there isn’t an audible voice or even a specific thought, but instead a feeling of stillness. With the stillness comes warmth, peace, and a closeness to God and Jesus Christ (see Psalm 46:10). I can feel my efforts to be aligned with Them strengthened. Ultimately, it is the seeking of uninterrupted quiet moments like this that has allowed me to feel close to my Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ, to know Them, and to hear Them.

Little did my grade-school self know that when my mother invited me to swim with her each week, she was also teaching me how to seek after stillness and listen to the voice of the Good Shepherd. As I have grown and practiced seeking out times and places to commune with God, the more I have realized that God is always there and has been anxiously waiting for me to draw nearer to Him.

Before I left to run some errands one evening, I asked my children to do their homework and told them I would correct it when I returned home. Upon my return, I was surprised to find my seven-year-old son, Mayco, riding his bike with a friend. I asked him if he had done what he was supposed to do, and he answered with a resounding yes. I then asked if he was telling the truth, and he said, “Mama, I can’t lie to you.”
This caught his friend’s attention, and he asked Mayco why he couldn’t lie. Mayco replied with total certainty, “How could I lie when I’m a Mormon?”
I went into the house to look over his homework, and not only was it done, but there were no mistakes. I am grateful for the gospel principles that my son is learning and for his example of becoming more like Jesus.

John usually raced downstairs when Mom called him for family home evening, but tonight he was already sitting on the couch when Mom came in the living room. The smell of Dad’s brownies had teased him in, but that wasn’t the only reason for his smile. Every week at family home evening, Mom read the latest e-mail from John’s brother David, who was serving a mission.
“Did David talk about his wrist this week?” John asked. Last week, David had mentioned that he had been in a bike accident and might have broken his wrist.
“Let’s find out,” Mom said.
“Dear family,” she read. “The doctor says my wrist is definitely broken. The broken bone is pushing other bones in my wrist out of alignment. I will probably need surgery. I am not in pain, and it is not swollen. It just is very broken.”
Mom kept reading. David had written about his companion and the people he had taught, but John’s mind was still on his brother’s wrist.
“Mom? Can I say family prayer tonight?” he asked when Mom finished.
“Sure,” Mom said.
The family knelt for prayer, and John made sure he prayed extra hard for David.
When they had brownies, John felt a little better, but he was still worried about his brother.
During the next week, John spent a lot of time praying for David. The next Sunday at dinner, Mom had an announcement.
“David is going to have surgery this week,” she said. “But the doctors are concerned because this type of injury is difficult to heal. They aren’t sure it will heal properly after the surgery.”
“Will David be able to finish his mission?” John asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dad said.
John stared at his plate. As much as he missed his brother, he didn’t want David to have to come home from his mission.
“Dad and I have an idea,” Mom said. “I know we’ve been praying for David, but we’d like to have a special fast for him.”
“A special fast?” John asked.
“It wouldn’t be on fast Sunday, and we would ask our friends and family to fast and pray that the surgery will go well.”
“We think you’re old enough to fast, so you can fast with us if you’d like,” Dad said.
“I like that idea,” John said.
A month and a half later, after a difficult surgery and several weeks in a cast, David sent an e-mail.
“Dear family, my wrist is an interesting story, especially the reaction from my doctor. He couldn’t find any sign of the fracture! He took lots more X-rays and told me that the bone had completely healed and that he didn’t need to put me back into a cast. My doctor isn’t a member of the Church, but he said my healing was a miracle. It’s incredible how all those prayers really worked.”
John leaned over Mom’s lap to read the e-mail for himself. “The fasting helped cause a miracle, didn’t it?” he asked.
Mom nodded. “The fast and all those prayers.”

I hope each young man who has been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood is given a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling, as well as opportunities to magnify that calling. I received such an opportunity as a deacon when the bishopric asked that I take the sacrament to a shut-in who lived about a mile from our chapel. That special Sunday morning, as I knocked on Brother Wright’s door and heard his feeble voice call, “Come in,” I entered not only his humble cottage but also a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord. I approached Brother Wright’s bedside and carefully placed a piece of the bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water, that he might drink. As I departed, I saw tears in his eyes as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me—with an appreciation for the sacred emblems of the sacrament and for the priesthood which I held.

Time passed. Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I had made rather rapid progress as far as promotions are concerned, and I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. And I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. There was just one man between me and that which for ten years I had hoped to get, the office of general in the British Army. I swelled up with pride. And this one man became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner in charge of all Canadian forces. I called in my valet, my personal servant. I told him to polish my buttons, to brush my hat and my boots, and to make me look like a general because that is what I was going to be. He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the General, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer. Someone else will be made a general.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for ten years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.

Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and I took a soldier’s privilege of looking on his desk. I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it in bold, block-type letters was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. I already held the highest rank of any Mormon in the British Army. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly. I saluted out of duty and went out. I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure. You will be called a coward when you get home. You raised all those Mormon boys to join the army, then you sneak off home.” I knew what I was going to get, and when I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap and my saddle brown belt on the cot. I clinched my fists and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have a Mutual Improvement Association. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their voices singing:
“It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me;
But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 75.)

I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost fifty years later, I look up to him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension when I’m no good any longer, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

His first months in the Scottish conference, where he was assigned, were not easy, as they are not for many missionaries. He describes this discouraging time and its resultant renewal of his commitment to the Lord in these words:
“I was homesick and a little discouraged on this day. A Scottish woman had said, when I gave her a tract, ‘Better gae to your home, ya canna have any o’oor lassies!’
“I did not want any of their lassies. I had left a sweet one at home. But it made me discouraged to think of the ill will which they had towards the Mormons. What misconceived notions they had of our purpose among them!
“I had just left school. I loved school and I loved young people. I loved youth. And then to go over there and feel that antipathy and prejudice gave me the blues.
“I was with Peter G. Johnston, one of the truest friends in all the world. He was from Idaho, an experienced, wealthy man, a lover of all things beautiful. I was fortunate to have his companionship. …
“As we were coming back into town, I saw on my right an unfinished dwelling, over the front door of which was a stone on which there was a carving. That was most unusual, so I said to Elder Johnston, ‘I’m going to see what that is.’ I was half way up the graveled walk when there came to my eyesight a striking motto as follows, carved in stone: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’
“I repeated it to Elder Johnston as we walked in to town to find a place for our lodgings before we began our work. We walked quietly, but I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’
“Then I thought what we had done that forenoon. We had been sightseeing; we had gained historical instruction and information, it is true, and I was thrilled with it, for we had just finished studying the ‘Lady of the Lake’ at the university. However, that was not missionary work.
“That afternoon, by the time we found our lodgings, I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”

Miranda hurried through the front door, thankful that her house was cooler than the hot summer weather outside. She was sweaty from playing her last football game of the season and frustrated because the Teal Turbos had lost. Again.
Mom came into the room carrying a water bottle and a bag of leftover orange slices from the game. “You played a great game. Being goalie is a rough job.”
Miranda had played well—she had blocked a lot of shots and kicked harder than usual. But most of the other girls on her team had never played football before, and today made it official: they had lost every game this season.
“I just wish I could be on a team that won once in a while, you know?” A few tears leaked out of the corners of Miranda’s eyes and fell onto her blue-green jersey. As she squeezed her eyes shut, the phone rang.
Mom picked up the phone and after a moment said, “It’s for you.”
“Hi, Miranda? This is Tom, coach of the Chili Kickers. I was watching your game today. You looked great out there.”
Miranda’s heart started beating faster. The Chili Kickers was the best football team in the league!
“Our team is going to the regional championship games next month. You played so well today that I want you to come with us as a back-up goalie.”
Miranda’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest. This was her chance to play with a winning team!
“I’d love to come!” Miranda said. They talked for a few minutes about the details before she hung up and ran into the other room to tell Mom. Together they started writing the dates of the practices and games on the family calendar.
Suddenly Mom stopped writing, her pen hovering above one of the calendar squares.
“Uh-oh. Miranda, these games are on Sundays. Here, look.” She pointed to the game schedule and turned to Miranda with a worried frown. “What do you think we should do?”
Miranda’s heart sank, and she bit her lip as she thought about her options. Mom might let her play if she asked, but when she thought about playing on Sunday—and especially about missing church—she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew Sunday was for going to church and worshipping Heavenly Father, and she couldn’t really do those things while playing football.
“I think I should probably call him back and tell him I can’t play,” Miranda said. She tried hard not to cry. Even though she knew it was the right choice, it was hard to give up something she wanted so badly.
“And you know what I think?” Mom said, giving her a big hug. “I think you are one great kid.”
That Sunday, as Miranda sat in Primary, she thought about the good decision she had made. The coach was surprised when Miranda had called and said she couldn’t play football on Sundays. He had tried to get her to change her mind, but she had stuck with her decision. Now, as she listened to the Primary songs and lessons, Miranda smiled. The peaceful feeling in her heart told her that she was in the right place. She’d made a winning decision after all.

Mozambique. The name, for some, conjures images of exotic wildlife, lush green vegetation, or white-sand beaches. More likely, it will send the average person scrambling for a map to discover its location in southeast Africa. But for Maria da Conceição, it means home. And thanks to the efforts of members in the Inhamízua Branch and a few missionaries, Maria now has a place in Mozambique to call her own.
Maria is a tiny woman with a gigantic spirit. Abandoned by her husband and oldest daughter, she was left to rear two small children on her own. Crippled by a debilitating disease she has had since birth, Maria struggled to pay the rent each month. In a country that has high unemployment, work and money are nearly impossible to come by. Yet Maria managed to make a meager living and do the best she could.
I was a full-time missionary in Mozambique. When I first met Maria, I was impressed by her positive attitude and zest for life. She worked relentlessly in her machamba (large garden) to provide for two children and herself and to pay rent on a small mud house.
Church members helped by providing food and medical care. Tragically, Maria’s two children died within three weeks of each other due to disease and no access to the right medical facilities. Death and suffering are common in Mozambique.
Serving as the branch president for our tiny branch, I was extremely concerned for Maria. Both the youth and adult members of our isolated branch did everything they could to help Maria. Some worked in the machamba, others offered food, and a few even helped pay the rent; but she needed a permanent answer.
Late one night, while I was pondering and searching for an answer, inspiration came to me in the form of an idea for an ambitious youth project: building a home for Maria. My companion, Elder Bis-Neto, and I proposed our idea to the younger members of the branch, and they jumped at the chance to help build Maria a house. There was little money and a great deal of work to be done, but with many willing hands and a vision of a traditional African mud-and-stick house, a plan took shape, and the youth went to work.
Everyone got down to business immediately. First job: get wood.
A trip into the African jungle to gather wood for building a home is not a job for the fainthearted. The youth and missionaries made many two-hour trips through thick, swampy savannas, endless rice fields, dense overgrown jungles, and waist-deep mud to find the perfect trees with which to build Maria’s house. Using machetes, we hacked down the slender trees and then organized them into bundles for the journey back. Some of the youth used tall wild grass to quickly weave hats to help protect their heads from the rough logs.
The most difficult leg of the journey now began. Carrying a heavy load on our heads, scratching our way through the dense undergrowth, and battling the scorching African sun, we hauled our loads back. As we walked, the youth sang hymns of Zion, with smiles on their faces.
Alves Elídio Eguimane Razão, 18, says, “It was a lot of hard work, and we loved every minute of it!”
The wooden frame went up stick by stick, with care given to ensure a sturdy and lasting structure. Many generous hands constructed the roof by laying down strips of plastic, which were secured with mats of woven weeds. This roof would need to repel the violent storms of the annual rainy season.
From mud walls to mud floors to mud pies, mud was the menu for most building days. Barrel after barrel of rich brown dirt was hauled in and then drenched in water. Dozens of youth and other branch members turned out to help hand mix the mud and cover the frame house. The exterior was done first, followed by the interior walls and partition. After we had packed the walls with several inches of strong, dried mud, the house started to take shape. To jazz up the interior, a special layer of mud was carefully applied to create the floor and solid water-resistant surfaces.
These days were full of hard work, but the atmosphere abounded in good humor and many smiles, not to mention the surprised eyes of the neighbors as they watched missionaries and youth carrying large bundles of sticks and gallons upon gallons of water and slinging handfuls of mud.
Finally the door was hung, a lock installed, and the house was done. After more than 1,000 service hours, given by more than 40 members and a number of missionaries, Maria da Conceição had a beautiful home of her own.

With a physical handicap and learning disability, Billie, at 15, was all but forgotten by our quorum. It was not necessary to baptize him. He had his own school to attend. With his physical handicap, Scouting had not seemed realistic. Then a new teachers quorum adviser was called. “If Billie is going to be on the rolls, then he should at least be included in the activities.” Brother Wilson made the first contact, and the response was overwhelming. Sure Billie wanted to come. “No one had even thought to ask,” his mother said apologetically.
Over the next few months of spring and summer Billie was at every Mutual activity, and we started to get acquainted with him. He felt like he belonged. Some of the boys didn’t understand Billie and were critical of him for being clumsy and awkward, but Billie felt wanted and knew our adviser loved him.
When Billie turned 16, he was forgotten again, but only until some of the rest of us turned 16. We remembered Billie and started bringing him out; with us around again Billie felt even more accepted.
Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been knocking on the door, and this was our year. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but everyone recognized the sparkle in his eye when he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten them during the regular season, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had run down to the store for some pop. The first game started without them, but the second string was good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was close, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back. We had to have the next game if we were to win two out of three.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always played all the boys. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.
Basketball season came. Everybody knew Billie by now. Everybody knew he would be playing. The referees knew what to do when he tried to dribble. The teams made certain allowances. He was really part of things.
Stake championship again. We worked our way through the teams in the stake, and the final game was between us and—you guessed it—them.
Well, it was close the first half, but then we fell apart. The coach could see what was happening, and by the third quarter it was pretty obvious that nothing was going to work for us that night. While we were looking for some way to get even with the same guys that beat us in volleyball, something unique was happening on the basketball court.
Billie was playing. He really couldn’t shoot. One arm and hand was withered, and he couldn’t give much direction to the ball. But every time he got the ball, their coach yelled for someone to foul Billie. That was the end; I was fighting mad. Even the people in the crowd couldn’t believe their ears. Why was our bishop smiling? Then one of their players gingerly went out and tapped Billie. One referee was so mystified by what was happening that he just stood there. In fact everybody just stood there for several silent seconds. Then the other referee blew his whistle, and when he did everyone understood. Billie got to shoot a foul shot. In fact, he got to shoot two foul shots (intentional foul), and when he missed those, one of the boys on the other team was standing with his foot over the line and Billie got to shoot again, in fact several more.
The crowd was clapping and cheering for Billie; we were cheering for him, but so was the other team. Was this really losing? Everyone was pulling together. No one seemed to care what the score was; everyone was helping Billie. Both teams were helping and cheering and pulling for Billie.
Billie shot a lot of free throws that night. We all cheered; we laughed a little; and Billie went home the star of the evening. Who won? They did, we did, and the stake did.
We found out that when we forget ourselves and our selfish goals, scores aren’t as important as the individual; and we found out that we all care about the same thing. Those guys on that other team aren’t so bad. The referees are really human. And losing a game isn’t the end of the world, not when you’re winning.
We went on that year to play in the Explorer Olympics. We played team sports in volleyball and basketball, and we won some and we lost some. But our investment in Billie was there, and we taught some other teams—or Billie taught some other teams—that winning only matters if you’re building your own stature or, as our bishop says, “if you’re developing character.” And I guess that’s what we learned from Billie—character.
Our bishop said that Billie is here to teach us. We’re all watching him a little more closely to see what other lessons we might learn from him.

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

One day, I was playing a good, fun game on the Internet. Then I noticed that the website I was on was advertising games with blood and gore. I had an uncomfortable feeling, so I exited the website. Later I found the same game on a different website that did not advertise bad games. I felt way better after I turned off the website advertising bad games. I am glad I have the gift of the Holy Ghost so I can be protected and comforted. I am glad the Holy Ghost helps me make good choices.
Renton O., age 10, Utah