Gospel Story Finder

Whenever I attend a temple dedication, I think of Brother and Sister Gustav and Margarete Wacker of Kingston, Ontario. He was once the branch president of the Kingston Branch. He was from the old country. He spoke English with a thick accent. He never owned or drove a car. He plied the trade of a barber. He made but little money cutting hair near an army base at Kingston. How he loved the missionaries! The highlight of his day would be when he had the privilege to cut the hair of a missionary. Never would there be a charge. When they would make a feeble attempt to pay him, he would say, “Oh, no; it is a joy to cut the hair of a servant of the Lord.” Indeed, he would reach deep into his pockets and give the missionaries all of his tips for the day. If it were raining, as it often does in Kingston, President Wacker would call a taxi and send the missionaries to their apartment by cab, while he, himself, at day’s end would lock the small shop and walk home—alone in the driving rain.

I first met Gustav Wacker when I noticed that his tithing was far in excess of that expected from his potential income. My efforts to explain to him that the Lord required no more than a tenth fell on attentive but unconvinced ears. He simply responded that he loved to pay all he could to the Lord. It amounted to about a third of his income. His dear wife felt exactly as he did. Their unique manner of tithing payment continued.

Gustav and Margarete Wacker established a home that was a heaven. They were not blessed with children but mothered and fathered their many Church visitors. A sophisticated and learned Church leader from Ottawa told me, “I like to visit the Wacker home. I come away refreshed in spirit and determined to ever live close to the Lord.”

Did our Heavenly Father honor such abiding faith? The branch prospered. The membership outgrew the rented Slovakian Hall where they met and moved into a modern and lovely chapel of their own to which the branch members had contributed their share and more, that it might grace the city of Kingston. President and Sister Wacker had their prayers answered by serving a proselyting mission to their native Germany and later a temple mission to that beautiful temple in Washington, D.C. Then, in 1983, his mission in mortality concluded, Gustav Wacker peacefully passed away while being held in the loving arms of his eternal companion, dressed in his white temple suit, there in the Washington Temple.

After a day at school in late fall many years ago when I was a 15-year-old boy, my mother and I were returning to our ranch home. Mother taught at the school, and she had waited for me to finish basketball practice. As we drove up the dirt lane that led to the house, to our horror we saw a large plume of smoke curling up from the roof—the house was on fire! We jumped from the car and ran across the yard toward the house. At that same moment my father, who had been working in the field and had seen the smoke, arrived on the scene. He ran to the front door and kicked it open. Flames that had been trapped inside leaped out. There was no way to enter. The fire had already engulfed the house.
As a family we stood silently and watched as the flames devoured the stricken building. First the roof fell straight down into the basement, causing a great burst of bright sparks to fly over the yard. Then the walls, one by one, toppled over into the same hole. In 30 minutes it was over. Only a tiny wisp of smoke rose from the ashes of what had been.
The nearest neighbors came to offer their help. They kindly took us to their home for the night. There were no extra beds, but with plenty of warm blankets and pillows, a place was made on the floor for us to spend the night.
I lay on the floor unable to sleep. In my mind’s eye I saw the flames consuming the house and everything that was inside of it: clothing, beds, furniture, priceless pictures, documents—nothing was saved. It was more than I could bear. The tears slipped from my eyes, and I sobbed aloud out of desperation and despair.
Nearby lay my mother and father. They could not close their eyes. Far into the night they had whispered about the loss and what they could possibly do to recover. My sobs caused Mother to rise from the floor and make her way to me. She knelt beside me, took me into her arms, kissed me, dried my tears, and reassured me that everything would be all right.
“But, Mother, we have lost everything,” I cried. “We have nothing.”
“There, there, my dear son,” she replied as she patted my face. “You do not understand. We still have our family. Not one of us was hurt in the fire. We have our dear friends and, most important, we have the Church and the gospel. Don’t you see? We have everything.”
That following Saturday night the tiny community had a party at the town hall. Everyone came from miles around. They brought presents of every kind: clothes, food, blankets, furniture, hundreds of dollars. One sweet family offered a small vacant family cabin, rent free, for the rest of the winter. It was an outpouring of love and generosity like nothing that had been seen before. Why, I had more clothes than I had ever had before in my life. And we survived that winter in spite of the tragedy.
The years passed, and I had become a man with a family of my own—a beautiful wife and six wonderful children. We had settled in Rexburg, Idaho, where for many years I taught at Ricks College (now BYU—Idaho). We had built a house on the east bench, above the city.
My parents had moved to a small town nearby—Sugar City, Idaho. They had built a lovely little home and were very comfortable. Then it happened. A dam built on the Teton River burst, and millions of gallons of water poured out of the reservoir, flooding the peaceful communities below. A wall of water 10 feet high rushed through the valley, sweeping away everything before it. Several sawmills were located in the valley, and the water picked up thousands of logs that became battering rams, crashing into buildings and literally causing them to explode with their terrible force. The cattle, horses, sheep, houses, and everything in the path of the raging water were gone. The water pushed a cloud of thick dust in front of it, and many of the animals trying to escape suffocated before the water engulfed them. Nearly every home in Sugar City was destroyed and washed away. Thankfully a warning had been sounded in sufficient time for almost all the people in the valley to get safely to higher ground.
Sister Hammond and I were out of town attending meetings in Boise, Idaho. When word of the flood came, we drove the five hours back to Rexburg. It was midnight when we arrived. All of the highways were closed. We came in over the dry farms on dirt roads. No lights were to be seen in the valley. Everything was in darkness. Only the moon shone brightly, and its reflection could be seen for miles on the now still waters left standing on the valley floor.
As we drove into the driveway of our home, five different families rushed outside to greet us. They had come because their houses were completely gone, vanished in the muddy water. My mother had put a few personal items into a small plastic basket and carried them with her as she and my father fled from their home. For the second time in her life everything of material worth was gone. There was no shelter and no food. All of them were weeping. They were so sad and so afraid.
We spread blankets as beds all over the house. After kneeling together in solemn, tender, humble prayer, everyone found a spot to lie down for the remainder of the night. There was no sleep that night. From the darkness could be heard the pitiful lowing of the surviving cattle. In the early morning hours I heard the muffled sounds of someone weeping. It was my heartbroken mother. I quickly arose from my bed and made my way through the hall into the room where she lay.
I gathered her little frame into my arms. I kissed her sweet face and whispered my love for her.
“Oh, Mel,” she cried, “what are we to do? Everything that we had is gone. We have nothing!”
“It is all right, Dear. Don’t be afraid.” And then I remembered what she had lovingly taught me so many years before. “Mother,” I whispered, “don’t you remember? Why, we have everything. Our family, our friends, the Church, and the gospel of Jesus Christ. We have everything!”
And she remembered. We wept together, and tears of sorrow became tears of gratitude.
“Oh, yes,” was her reply, “we still do have everything! Everything that is important.”

Sometimes attention to spiritual matters might mean just putting ourselves in an attitude of listening and learning. In one very critical time in my life, I was struggling with an important career decision. I was working in Southern California as an investment manager after graduation from BYU. One day I had a meeting with a client who was a successful cardiologist. He was late to our appointment. I became frustrated, as I felt my time was important and he was being inconsiderate.

He eventually came into the meeting, slightly out of breath. He apologized for being late and explained that he had been saving the life of one of his patients. This caught me off guard, and I struggled through the meeting with him. This man had been saving a life, and I had been impatient to discuss with him something certainly much less consequential. I struggled through this issue for months and considered changing professions—maybe I should be a teacher or maybe I should be a doctor saving lives.

One day while driving on the freeway in Los Angeles—which is inherently not a very spiritual environment—I was focused on this dilemma. As I prayed and pondered, I felt an opening of communication with the Spirit. I was taught profound truths: My desire to provide for my family was important, but I was first a disciple of Christ, and He had children within my chosen vocation who I could influence in righteous ways. He needed plumbers, architects, accountants, electricians, and even investment managers because His children who needed rescuing were in all those spheres of influence. This experience changed my approach at work. It changed the way I interacted with those with whom I was serving—both at church and in my chosen vocation.

“Is anyone still awake?” The first time I asked, I had received two whispered responses in the affirmative. Now, hours later, the silence answered that I was the last one in the room who couldn’t get to sleep.
It was my first night in the Missionary Training Center (MTC). That day, I had said good-bye to my parents, met my companion and the other new missionaries going to Italy, and been to the first set of classes. I was exhausted, but my mind was spinning with anxiety. “What have I gotten myself into?” I asked myself over and over. I didn’t know if I could really learn to be a missionary. Would I have the courage to fly to a foreign country and talk to strangers about the gospel? Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here. Tears started to roll down my cheeks.
Then I remembered something my mom had told me about her brother Larry. Uncle Larry served his mission in Uruguay and Paraguay in the 1970s. At first he had spent sleepless nights worrying about his inadequacies. When he felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, he would get out of his bed, go into the bathroom, and kneel down to plead with Heavenly Father for peace. Somehow, with the Lord’s help, Uncle Larry made it through and served a faithful mission.
I felt some hope at this thought and crept down the hall to the bathroom. In the dim light, I knelt on the cold tile floor and sobbed. I begged Heavenly Father to grant me a feeling of peace so that I could have the courage to move forward.
I waited. Nothing happened. I waited some more, hearing only the sound of my crying. Finally, there was nothing to do but go back to bed.
In the moment before I fell asleep, the answer came. The Spirit filled my mind with a bright, warm impression of a beautiful place. Suddenly I knew that although I might have a hard time with fear in the beginning, if I pressed forward, I would get to where the Lord meant me to be. The thought filled me with peace, and I fell asleep.
The Spirit had hinted of beautiful things ahead. In hard moments during my stay at the MTC, I closed my eyes and remembered what I had felt. With prayer and hard work, I outlasted my fears.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in Genoa, Italy, with my new companion. In the kitchen of our apartment was a glass door that led to a balcony. I stepped out on the balcony and gazed at the city. I already knew and loved this city. This was the place I had seen in my mind’s eye that night at the MTC. I knew the Lord had led me to this moment, and I was right where I belonged.

Since the Mount Timpanogos Temple is in their community, students at the Pleasant Grove seminary join with other seminary students from other high schools on Sunday evenings at the temple grounds. It’s an informal gathering where young people sit on the grass and sing hymns. John Fisher’s favorite hymn is now “I Need Thee Every Hour,” because of an experience that happened to him while singing at the temple grounds. He said, “When I first read through the Book of Mormon, I fasted and prayed to know if it was true. I was singing at the Mount Timpanogos Temple. During “I Need Thee Every Hour,” I looked up at the temple, and I got my answer right there. The temple just seemed to be glowing about three times brighter. I just knew.”

We also visited my widowed Aunt Dorothy before she died. She had been very ill for some time, yet she lived on. She waited patiently to be with her husband again after this life. She depended on help from others but lived as fully as possible. She often read the scriptures. A small sign in her home expressed Dorothy’s attitude. It simply said, “Joy.”
Some of the happiest people I know: my mother, Ramona (top), my cousin Dave and Penny Barnes (center), and my Aunt Dorothy (above).
Photographs courtesy of the author
The Keetch family, my mother, Dave, Penny, and Aunt Dorothy are examples of being joyful during trials. They simply live the gospel and look to better days ahead. In doing so they show joy that exceeds the temporary, though painful, trials they face. With faith in God, they follow His plan for them and rely on Jesus Christ and the blessings of His Atonement. This brings joy and peace.

The family home evening we remember most fondly was one we held at a difficult time. Due to a change in management, my husband had gone through some challenges at work and felt discouraged.
We decided family home evening that week would be in his honor. Every member of the family wrote him a letter of thanks, saying why we love him and what we hope for him. Then we made an album of photographs of the family at important times, such as anniversaries, marriages, sealings, births, and other events. We wrote a comment by each one, ending each with “And so we are a happy family.” At the close of the evening, my daughter and I sang a Primary song that contains a similar phrase (see “A Happy Family,” Children’s Songbook, 198).
During family home evening we could feel the Savior’s love for us and the love we have for each other.
I am grateful for the inspired commandment to hold family home evening. Obeying it strengthens us, preparing us to be an eternal family.
Kenia Duarte dos Santos, Brazil

When he was President of the Church, he visited Nauvoo in 1906 and reflected on a memory he had when he was just five years old. He said: “This is the exact spot where I stood when [Joseph, my uncle, and my father, Hyrum] came riding up on their way to Carthage. Without getting off his horse father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me good-bye and put me down again and I saw him ride away.”
The next time Joseph F. saw them, his mother, Mary Fielding Smith, lifted him up to see the martyrs lying side by side after being brutally murdered in Carthage Jail on June 27, 1844.

At age 17, after being hit in the eye with a baseball, he promised the Lord that if he didn’t lose his eyesight, he would read the Book of Mormon. He regained the use of his eye and read 10 pages every day for nearly three months.
“It was the most powerful spiritual experience I’ve ever had, when the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon was true,” Elder Echo Hawk said. “That experience has empowered me throughout my life to help me improve.”

Scritchy-scratchy, scritchy, scritchy-scratchy.
Jimmy awoke with a start. “What is that noise?” he asked out loud.
“It must be Kitty,” he cried, jumping out of bed. He ran through the hall and out the front door to find Kitty.
Jimmy ran around the house, and there he saw Kitty lapping milk from a saucer on the back porch.
Kitty licked the milk off her whiskers and stared at Jimmy a moment. Then she quietly returned to her milk. Lap, lap, lap.
Jimmy shook his head. If it’s not Kitty, it must be Spotty, he decided. And away Jimmy ran to find his dog.
Spotty was burying a bone near the shrubs. “Woof,” he barked. His paws made a soft poosh, poosh sound as he dug into the wet ground.
“It’s not Kitty and it’s not Spotty. Maybe it’s Baby Brother,” Jimmy said to himself as he ran into the house.
Mother and Baby Brother were in the kitchen. Baby Brother was sitting in his high chair. Bang! Bang! went the spoon as Baby Brother hit the tray. He waved his arms and wiggled.
Ker-sploosh! Down went his cereal bowl. Clatter! Bang! Plop!
“You make a lot of noise,” Jimmy said, “but it’s not a scritchy-scratchy sound.”
Mother picked up the cereal bowl. “Jimmy, why are you running around in your pajamas and bare feet?”
“I’m trying to find what woke me,” Jimmy answered.
“Maybe it was the sun shining in your window,” Mother suggested.
Jimmy shook his head. “The sun doesn’t make any noise.”
“What kind of noise did you hear?” Mother asked.
“It was sort of like Kitty scratching on something, but Kitty is lapping her milk,” Jimmy replied. “And it was a little like Spotty when he is scratching, but Spotty is burying a bone in the soft ground.”
Mother smiled. “Let’s go back in your room. Maybe I can help you find it.”
So Mother lifted Baby Brother out of the high chair, and they all went to Jimmy’s bedroom.
“Sh-h-h,” said Mother.
“Sh-h-h,” said Jimmy.
They listened quietly. Soon they heard the noise.
Scritchy-scratchy, scritchy, scritchy-scratchy.
“That’s it,” whispered Jimmy.
Mother smiled. “Come look out the window.”
Jimmy tiptoed to the window.
“Look up under the eaves of the roof,” Mother whispered.
Jimmy looked and he saw a little bird building a nest.
Jimmy and Mother and Baby Brother watched the bird fly away. Soon it returned, carrying dry grass and a twig in its beak. The scritchy-scratchy sounds began again as the bird worked at building the nest.
Jimmy smiled happily. “Will there be eggs in the nest?” he asked.
Mother nodded. “Tiny speckled eggs.”
“And will there be baby birds?” Jimmy questioned.
“With their mouths wide open, waiting to be fed,” Mother told him.
“I can hardly wait!” Jimmy exclaimed. “That will be great! I have Kitty and Spotty and Baby Brother, and now I’ll even have baby birds to watch. I have just about everything!”

In 1975 Janelle Griffin was a sophomore at Woods Cross High School in Bountiful, Utah. An assigned paper on the population explosion started a chain of events that eventually led to a sound filmstrip called “Very Much Alive.”

Janelle and her father, Dr. Glen Griffin, now members of the Val Verda 10th Ward (Bountiful Utah Val Verda Stake), went through the family photos and selected some good slides. These were matched with an anti-abortion story-script that Janelle and her father wrote. The resulting slide presentation, emphasizing the sanctity of human life, was used in the Career Day event at school by Dr. Griffin, a nationally-known pediatrician and author.

The slide presentation was enthusiastically applauded by students and teachers. Refinements and revisions followed. A sound track was recorded on cassette tape. Some who saw the presentation suggested that every LDS youth should see “Very Much Alive.”

After they had seen it, the Presiding Bishopric agreed. Many revisions and refinements followed, and then followed distribution in 17 languages to all the Church. As word got around, copies were purchased by other churches and by anti-abortion groups.

Now another edition of “Very Much Alive” has been prepared. Entitled “Very Much Alive—Worldwide Edition,” this filmstrip contains no mention of religion and is being used in many schools as part of their approved curriculum libraries.

Countless lives have been touched and others will yet be touched for good because of a filmstrip that had its beginning in a homework assignment to a Latter-day Saint girl in Bountiful.

Babies’ lives have been spared. Unwed parents have been influenced to make wise choices. Adoptive parents have rejoiced to have infants placed in their homes.

I conclude with an example in my own life. Once I had a treasured friend who seemed to experience more of life’s troubles and frustrations than he could bear. Finally he lay in the hospital, terminally ill. I knew not that he was there.
Sister Monson and I had gone to that same hospital to visit another person who was very ill. As we exited the hospital and proceeded to where our car was parked, I felt the distinct impression to return and make inquiry concerning whether Hyrum Adams might be a patient there. Long years before, I had learned never, never, to postpone a prompting from the Lord. It was late, but a check with the desk clerk confirmed that indeed Hyrum was a patient.
We proceeded to his room, knocked on the door, and opened it. We were not prepared for the sight that awaited us. Balloon bouquets were everywhere. Prominently displayed on the wall was a poster with the words “Happy Birthday” written on it. Hyrum was sitting up in his hospital bed, his family members by his side. When he saw us, he said, “Why, Brother Monson, how in the world did you know that this is my birthday?” I smiled but I left the question unanswered.
Those in the room who held the Melchizedek Priesthood surrounded this, their father and my friend, and a priesthood blessing was given.
After tears were shed, smiles of gratitude exchanged, and tender hugs received and given, I leaned over to Hyrum and spoke softly to him: “Hyrum, remember the words of the Lord, for they will sustain you. He promised, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.’”

An apostle of the Lord made me a promise. “The Lord God will not leave you alone, nor will he be in debt. This you can count on.”
Those were the comforting words of Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve as he spoke at funeral services for my young husband. The “compensation” he spoke of was beyond my comprehension, and the thought remained in my memory for years. I could not see the end from the beginning.
That we are not alone, however, and that a loving Father in Heaven hears our prayers was more tangible. Our five children, ages four through sixteen, understood this. Their father, whose career had been in broadcasting, had often taught that their voices and thoughts are audible to the Lord, that they could reach the Lord through prayer if their lives were tuned in to the right frequency. Little David, the youngest, prayed at his grandmother’s knee on that first lonely night, “Please bless my daddy, so he will be well when I get there.”
We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Also, the Church in the Washington D.C. area was strong and growing fast. Members from adults to grade-school children felt a strong sense of identity with the Church. The opportunity to identify oneself as a Latter-day Saint promoted awareness of doctrine and practices and, through commitment to covenants, helped build strong testimonies of the gospel.
There was a feeling of missionary excitement. Our neighborhood is filled with beautiful churches of various Christian denominations. In the months and years after we returned to our home, school friends who were members of those churches invited our children to speak to their youth groups about Mormonism, and the interest and questions of the young people and their religious leaders challenged our children to expand their knowledge and test their faith. Many close friendships and several conversions resulted.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.
There was little time for grief that first year. The awesome responsibilities of my new role as sole parent were overwhelming. Ralph had been very much in charge, and I relied heavily on his judgment and leadership. Attempting to establish my authority was of prime importance. The children thought they were very funny when they made birthday and Mother’s Day cards depicting me in a general’s uniform. However, I knew my authority was finally recognized when I overheard one small child say to another, “What are Mother and Daddy going to do when they get together again, now that Mother’s the boss?”
But there was a special presence in our home. Father was considered to be out of reach but not out of touch. I realized this one day when teen-aged Alison said, “Mother, I can always get out of your range, but I can’t get out of Daddy’s.” This was a positive moment that reminded me of Elder Evans’ promise.
Our youngest child insists that he never felt fatherless. His departed father was always a real person to him, and he intuitively understood the eternal nature of the family unit long before he learned about the covenants and promises that can ensure its endurance. This awareness also translated into a desire on the part of our children to prove themselves so as not to disappoint the father they had come to idealize. As for me, I was determined to succeed in my stewardship. I could not fail my eternal partner or my Eternal Father. Our purpose bound us even closer together as a family as we shared our trials and successes.
Temple marriage was a subject of special interest. It was an anchor to which we could hold and a prize that all would one day attain. Our primary motivation was that we might all serve the Lord’s purposes so as to be reunited as a family once again.
A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.
When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

I was blessed to have a mentor who modeled this combination for me when I was at Stanford. Elder Robert M. Daines, a General Authority Seventy who was then a professor at Stanford Law School, was the bishop of my young single adult ward. As his executive secretary, I saw that he walked the walk in his Church service and in his responsibilities as a father and husband.

I also worked as a research assistant for Elder Daines and took a class from him, and I saw the positive impact of his research in the academic and policy realms. In effect, even though Elder Daines was not at BYU, he was taking a double-heritage approach in teaching me—he showed me what it meant to “speak with authority and excellence” in his academic discipline while also modeling literacy “in the language of spiritual things.”

Watching this example at a pivotal time in my life had a powerful impact on my vision of who I wanted to become. Not only did Elder Daines’s life provide me with examples of laudable goals worth shooting for, but I also felt more confident setting challenging goals for myself because I had a mentor who believed in me and who had a track record of achieving excellent things himself. I felt more inspired to aim high in my academic and professional goals—and to keep my spiritual foundation strong—with someone like Elder Daines in my camp.

Sarah had a similarly influential mentor in her life when she attended BYU. As she navigated through a history major, graduate school, and her early career, Dr. Paul Kerry inspired her to seek her highest potential both in her studies and in her discipleship. Dr. Kerry—who has appointments in the BYU History Department and the International Center for Law and Religion Studies and who has held visiting fellowships at schools including Princeton, Cambridge, the London School of Economics, and Oxford—has spent much of his career seeking to build bridges for the Church and BYU in the world and creating opportunities for BYU students to excel.

Wanting to recognize his far-reaching influence, Sarah calligraphed a quote for Dr. Kerry on her graduation that reads, “There comes that mysterious meeting in Life when someone acknowledges who we are and what we can be, igniting the circuits of our highest potential.” This piece still hangs in Dr. Kerry’s office today.

I am grateful that Elder Daines and Dr. Kerry are both still part of our lives, providing counsel, support, and friendship many years later.

By age nineteen, she had saved enough money to go to Chicago, Illinois, where she studied at the Chicago Art Institute under the great John Vanderpoel. Several times during her three-year course she had to go home to earn more money by working in the fields or in the classroom. But Minerva always returned to her studies. With characteristic confidence, Minerva once confronted Mr. Vanderpoel, asking why he criticized her work so harshly when so many classmates were doing much poorer work. She later recalled, “I shall never forget the disappointment on the man’s face when he answered in a choked voice, ‘Can it be possible you do not understand; those other students are not worth it, they will eventually leave school, but you—ah, there is no end’” (“Miss Kohlhepp’s Own Story,” Pocatello, Idaho, 1917).

Ankawu was standing in front of the counter at the Cahuilla Indian Reservation trading post. Her eyes sparkled as she read a sign tacked to the wall above the scales.
SCOOTER RACE SATURDAY $ FIVE DOLLARS $ AWARDED TO THE WINNER
The only person who could possibly be a challenge is Caromanie, she thought. When it came to competing with him in a footrace, she usually won, but he was fast on a scooter. Ankawu was especially anxious to win the scooter race so she could buy a gift for her mother.
She walked to the other side of the store as she had so often done and gazed longingly at the orange potholders made in the shape of mittens. Ever since her mother burned her hand when removing a pot from the stove using only an apron, Ankawu had wanted to buy potholders for her.
“Would you like to buy those potholders, Ankawu?” asked the trader, interrupting her thoughts. “I notice you look at them every time you come into the store.”
Ankawu felt her cheeks grow warm. “Maybe, if I win the race,” she answered.
“Never say if,“ encouraged the man. “If you have doubts, you’ll lose before you start.”
Ankawu smiled at the kind man with white hair and bronze face. “Thank you for your advice,” she said and left the store.
On her way home Ankawu met Caromanie. “I’m going to win the race,” he bragged.
“Maybe,” said Ankawu with a shrug.
“I have the biggest scooter,” taunted Caromanie.
“Sometimes big things are clumsy,” reminded Ankawu.
“I’ll tell you what,” continued Caromanie. “Just to show you what a good sport I am, I’ll race you for practice.”
“OK,” Ankawu agreed. “I’ll meet you at the road. We can race to the bald spot.”
The bald spot was a smooth area of ground that was hard as rock without any vegetation growing on it. A utility road stretched over a slight incline before running downward onto the bald spot.
“I must beat Caromanie,” Ankawu kept repeating to herself on the way to the practice race. “I must. I wish that just this once he would move as slowly as his turtle namesake.”
Several children followed Ankawu to where Caromanie was waiting on the utility road. At a signal, both riders moved swiftly forward. Finally Caromanie gained enough speed to beat Ankawu over the inclines and then gracefully coasted onto the bald spot.
“See, what did I tell you,” he teased.
Ankawu turned her scooter around and hurried home. She was so disappointed that she could hardly keep back the tears. “Mama,” Ankawu asked, “what do you do when things go wrong?”
“I try to do something constructive like watering flowers, pulling weeds, or helping someone. That way I forget myself and soon the hurt passes. Doing good is like winning. Something comes back to you when you least expect it,” her mother answered in her gentle voice.
Ankawu put a pail into her wagon and filled it with water; then she pulled it past the clapboard houses and out into the open fields. In the distance a few cattle were grazing and the smell of pastures filled the air. She was warm and perspiring by the time she reached a cluster of desert boxwoods called jojoba plants. As she poured the water, it disappeared quickly into the dry earth, hardly leaving a trace of moisture. The jojoba’s green leaves were thick and broad, meeting the challenges of survival in such an arid country, and the branches were laden with seedpods almost as large as peanuts. Feeling pleased and less unhappy, Ankawu started for home. On her way, she saw Caromanie in his yard, applying oil to the wheels of his scooter and spinning them after each application.
“Can I use some of your oil on my scooter wheels?” she asked.
“Sorry, but it’s all gone,” answered Caromanie. “How about another race tomorrow?”
Ankawu’s first impulse was to say no, for she did not believe he had used all the oil, but she shrugged and said, “If you want to.”
Once more Ankawu raced Caromanie and lost. And once more she filled a pail and went off to water the jojoba plants. In her bitter disappointment, she pulled off a seedpod and broke it into bits. An oily substance clung to her hands. Ankawu rubbed her fingers together, and they felt slippery. It must be a kind of oil! she thought excitedly. She gathered more seedpods into the pail and hurried home.
Ankawu crushed the seedpods with a stone and collected enough oil in an empty can to apply to her scooter wheels. “When tomorrow comes,” she said enthusiastically, “I’ll be ready!”
On Saturday morning every youngster on the reservation who had a scooter was preparing for the race. Some were dressed in native costumes; others wore their jeans.
Caromanie was smiling. He was wearing his fancy buckskin vest. “I’m going to win,” he boasted.
Ankawu adjusted the single feather in her headband and waved to her mother as the starter alerted the contestants to take their places.
A whistle signaled them away in a flurry of excitement. An array of bright blouses and shirts seemed to move like birds taking off. But the other riders were soon left behind. Now only Ankawu and Caromonie were competing for the prize. Nearing the crest of the incline, Ankawu prayed that she could keep her lead. Her scooter seemed to be flying over the hard ground as though it had wings. Voices rose in loud cheers as she reached the bald spot ahead of Caromanie.
As soon as the five-dollar bill was in her hand, Ankawu hurried to the trading post to buy the potholders.
“Oh, dear!” she cried out when she saw they were gone. “Did you—”
The trader came to the counter. “I knew you’d be coming back, so I put them away for you.”
“But how did you know I was going to win?” asked Ankawu.
“I just had a hunch,” he said, reaching under the counter for the potholders. “Your mother told me how you crushed the jojoba seedpods and used the waxy oil on your scooter wheels. It’s a wonderful lubricant. I read about the jojoba plant and its seedpods in the paper. The oil from these seeds is similar to sperm whale oil. The government wants to plant many jojobas on Indian reservations.”
“Then the whale wouldn’t be in danger anymore?” questioned Ankawu.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding his head.
“I’m glad,” said Ankawu. “Glad for the whales and also glad because now there’ll be more jojoba plants. Thanks to them, I won the race and now I can take these beautiful orange potholders home to my mother.”

When Katy Ballenger started volunteering at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, she had no idea her life would be changed forever. On her last day volunteering at the hospital, the nurses asked her to spend the day with a terminally ill boy who spoke little and who smiled even less. She read stories to him and played with him all day, and, after all her efforts, the boy laughed. He was sad to see her go at the end of the day. “I realized I had made a difference in this child’s life,” Katy says.
After experiencing the good feelings that resulted from her service, Katy decided to make a difference and continue to use the gifts her Heavenly Father had given her to serve others.

Several years ago, as this Conference Center was being built and nearing completion, I entered this sacred building on the balcony level in a hard hat and safety glasses, ready to vacuum the carpet that my husband was helping to install. Where the rostrum now stands was a front-end loader moving dirt, and the dust in this building was thick. When it settled, it did so on the new carpet. My part was to vacuum. And so I vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed. After three days my little vacuum burned up!

The afternoon before the first general conference in this beautiful building, my husband called me. He was about to install the last piece of carpet—under this historic pulpit.
He asked, “What scripture should I write on the back of this carpet?”
And I said, “Mosiah 18:9: ‘Stand as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.’”

Years ago when I was vacuuming this carpet—trying to act well my small part—I didn’t realize that I would one day stand with my feet on the carpet under this pulpit.

One day at school as I ate lunch and studied for my next class, I noticed a group sitting near me, talking and laughing. One young woman particularly caught my attention. She was tall, with beautiful black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones. Her appearance was as unlike my pale, freckled face and red hair as anything I could imagine. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen.
After a few minutes, the group rose to leave. But the young woman I had been watching stopped. I was somewhat embarrassed; I thought she must have seen me staring at them. Then something extraordinary happened.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I want to tell you how beautiful you are.”
After a shocked pause, I started to laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you!”
After she left, I continued to think about what had happened. We found our differences beautiful. At that moment I realized there is no single standard of beauty.

In 1986, President Ezra Taft Benson promised the Saints that the power of the Book of Mormon would begin to flow into our lives the moment we began a serious study of the book (see Ensign, November 1986, page 7). Inspired by his promise, my wife and I decided to start reading the Book of Mormon with our family.
At the time we had four children, ages six months to six years. At first, we were able to read only one column each day. With 531 pages and twice that many columns, the book seemed like a never-ending undertaking.
Despite, or maybe because of, how slowly we read, we made every effort to read each weekday. Our children were eager to please—often waking us to start reading. Although we missed very few days, it took us more than six months to read 1 Nephi.
By this time our two oldest children were able to read a few words by themselves. As we slowly made our way through 2 Nephi, including quotations from the writings of Isaiah, we were growing as a family in spiritual as well as other ways. We added a daily devotional time and another child to the family. Dirty diapers and cries of hunger often interrupted our reading, but each day we would finish our allotted column no matter how long it seemed to take.
About the time our oldest turned 11 years old, we started reading at an accelerated pace—one page per day. As we neared the middle of that year, we received word that the Alberta Temple would be rededicated the next spring, an event our family had been looking forward to. We did some calculating and found that if we continued reading at the same pace, we would have one chapter of the Book of Mormon left to read on the day the dedication would begin. We planned to travel the 1,200 kilometers to attend this event, rise early that morning, and drive to the temple grounds to read the last chapter.
The morning of the dedication dawned bright and clear. The temple grounds were beautiful, and we sat down behind the old stone monument as we prepared to read.
The Spirit seemed to be with us more strongly than usual as we finished the chapter and concluded the volume of scripture. It had taken us about five years to complete reading it. We each took a turn praying for confirmation that the Book of Mormon was indeed the word of God. We didn’t see any angels or hear voices, but we did feel the calm, peaceful, loving presence of the Holy Ghost. Tears filled our eyes as the Spirit testified to each of us of the truthfulness and sacredness of the Book of Mormon.
We gave thanks for the opportunity we’d had to become closer to the great prophets of the Book of Mormon and for the blessings that we had received through reading their words—blessings of increased faith, strength in the face of adversity, and greater love and tranquility in our home. Indeed, we had received the blessings a prophet of God had promised us.