Gospel Story Finder

Before our calling as Stake Interfaith Specialists, we served in the bishopric and Relief Society of our ward, where we had many opportunities to build bridges in our local community. During that time, we were blessed to open our meetinghouse to various local organisations and faith groups in need of a space to gather. These included an International Women’s Day celebration, pop-up clothing shops for asylum seekers, English Connect lessons, warm space initiatives in winter and even small social gatherings for refugee families.
One of the most cherished relationships we developed was with the Ahmadiyya Muslim Association. Without a building of their own, they have used our meetinghouse for several events and have become close friends of our members. A highlight was a youth evening where their young people met with ours to talk about our respective beliefs, share experiences and enjoy sports and games together. The unity and joy felt that evening were so powerful that we plan to make it a regular event.
Since being set apart in our new callings, our desire to reach out has only grown. We’ve come to know and love many people of different faiths, churches and service backgrounds and we’ve felt strengthened by their examples of quiet, consistent goodness. Their desire to serve, often without recognition, has been truly humbling.
Early on, we felt prompted to look into the Stevenage Interfaith Forum, which had been inactive for some time. With the Lord’s help and the support of others, we were able to re-establish it. Today, eight different faith groups and churches meet regularly, with strong backing from civic leaders—including the previous Lady Mayor and the current Mayor of Stevenage.
This led to our invitation to the Stevenage Mayor’s Multi-Faith Gathering 2025, held on the Covid Day of Reflection. Brother Head was asked to speak in his dual role as Chair of the Interfaith Forum and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He shared how our faith inspires us to reach out, to build community and to serve. The response was very positive and several groups have since asked to be involved in our future meetings.
The event’s theme was ‘Coming Together’ and it truly lived up to its name. Prayers and reflections were offered for youth, for those with special needs and for the care of our planet. The words shared by friends from the Sikh, Ahmadiyya Muslim, Methodist, Jewish, Roman Catholic, Church of England and Latter-day Saint communities were moving and unifying.
As Latter-day Saints, we believe in “standing as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places”. Participating in interfaith work allows us to do just that—to represent Christ in our communities, to serve shoulder to shoulder with people of goodwill and to show that our Church truly desires to bless the lives of all of God’s children.
We are grateful for these opportunities to build relationships, foster mutual respect and help others come to know who we are by the way we live and serve.

For as long as I can remember, our family had no contact with my dad’s side of the family, except for his two sisters. I had never known my grandfather, much less anything about my father’s genealogy. That all changed a few years ago.
My grandfather had disapproved of our religion, and in past years he had often criticized it in his letters to my family. My father had tried many times to reason with him, but it never worked. So unfortunately, when I was four years old, our family lost all contact with him.
Then in January of 2002, I began looking through our family records for names to take to the temple during an upcoming temple trip. To my disappointment, I discovered only five temple-ready names in my mother’s files. We had very few names on my father’s side, and the few we had were already done. I prayed hard for a long time about where to start researching further.
Then one day, out of the blue, we received a letter from my great-uncle Birl, my grandfather’s older brother. He wrote that he wanted to get back in contact with our family, and he enclosed his e-mail address and two sheets of genealogy. The Sunday before we received the letter I had been set apart as the first counselor in the Beehive class presidency. My blessing said I would “receive the materials needed to support the Church and my family.” I felt that Uncle Birl’s letter was the answer to that blessing and my prayers.
Still, I was a little uneasy at first. I had never even heard of my Uncle Birl before, and for all I knew he could disapprove of our religious beliefs as my grandfather did. But the more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I finally had names for the upcoming temple trip.
After looking over the genealogy, I went to my room and got down on my knees, asking my Heavenly Father for guidance. Should I contact my uncle and pursue the rest of the family history? My answer came. A few minutes after I finished my prayer, a peaceful feeling washed over me, bringing me again to my knees in awe. I knew that this would unite our family again.
That night I e-mailed my uncle. Since then, Uncle Birl has sent me vast amounts of information, including his complete database of more than 6,000 names he has been compiling throughout his life. Many of these files he had already given to the Church. He has told me more than once that he has great respect for our beliefs.
I love my Uncle Birl very much. Through him, I was finally able to meet my grandfather and reopen the gates of communication between us. With all this help, our family has been able to supply the members of our ward with many names they can take to the temple.
Every time I go to the temple to perform baptisms for my ancestors, I know I am really making a difference. I truly believe this is one of the greatest services we can do here on this earth. And every day as I learn more about my ancestors, I am also learning more about who I am.

It was then she looked up, and instead of seeing two young men in suitcoats and on bikes turn out of the alley, only one was coming. His white shirt was missing its usual tie, and his bike and coat were gone. With head down and hands jammed hard in his pockets, clenched in fists of frustration, he was kicking rocks and old cans as he stomped toward her. She could see that he was talking to himself, and as the distance narrowed, she caught snatches of the angry words he was saying.

She sat and listened as he began having a mental battle with himself. First he’d mumble a scripture on patience, or brotherly love, or humility, then a quick comeback on patience being gone, and brotherly love destroyed by this or that, and humility nonexistent. The more he talked, the more the scriptures began to win until he was murmuring only pieces of scriptures and phrases of hymns that she had never heard before.

There had been a disagreement of some sorts; that was obvious. By the time he had reached the spot where she sat staring in the chrysanthemums, he had slowed and stopped. He stood looking at his scuffed shoes, totally unaware of her presence, his mind frantically searching for what to do. Pride said go, but love said stop. The hardness of his brow softened, the firmness around his mouth that had kept his gritted teeth solidly in place weakened, and she could see his eyes fill with tears. She became very conscious of her position and wished she were one of her beautiful little flowers blowing in the breeze.

Then from the alley a voice boomed: “Elder, wait! I—I’m sorry!” The young man near her slowly turned and looked where his partner was standing in his stocking feet.

For what seemed enough time to plant and harvest a section of wheat, the air remained empty of human sounds or movement. Then Elder Scuffed Shoes looked at her and, in a rather husky voice, asked if he could please have a flower. “A flower of forgiveness,” he had muttered. Mutely she clipped one for him and watched as he retraced his steps until he stood in front of the other. They were too far off for her to hear what was said, but she saw the flower exchange hands and watched as they walked back to their apartment in the alley, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder.

She had sat there in the flowers trying to figure out how one young man could know so much about love and have such an abundance of it, while another lay lifeless on a mortician’s table because of his gross lack of it. Both had been searching for what life really was. One had found it; the other hadn’t. Why? She couldn’t answer her own question. Finally she got up and left to prepare for a funeral many miles away. Even as she left, she knew she had to find the answer to “Why?” when she returned.

I Love Family History! I didn’t always appreciate family history work. That changed when I was baptized for one of my ancestors in the Chile Santiago Temple.
I was a deacon the first time I went to the temple. When I was about to enter the baptismal font, I felt the presence of someone enter the room. I looked up and saw an old man dressed in old clothes. I felt his love and gratitude for me because I was doing his vicarious work. After I was baptized for him and came up out of the water, I looked around for him, but he was no longer there.
I used to think that the temple would provide the names for temple work, so I wasn’t interested in doing family history research. But this experience got me excited about looking for my own family names.
One day I got on my computer and saw that I had received an email from the Church with a family name. I felt that I needed to research more names, so I asked my mother how I could effectively look for names and gather more information about my ancestors.
So far, I’ve found 11 family names, and I know I can find even more. These people never had the opportunity to be baptized while they were on earth, and they have waited a long time for their temple work to be done. I’m glad I can help them through temple and family history work.
Lucas,16, Santiago, Chile

He bears his missionary testimony as a special witness without the fear of man. I have observed it. At the Copenhagen Denmark Area Conference held August 3–5, 1976, President Kimball went to see Thorvaldsen’s beautiful sculpture The Christus, the resurrected Christ, which has been reproduced, as you know, for the visitors’ centers in Salt Lake City, Los Angeles, and New Zealand. After a few spiritual moments admiring The Christus, President Kimball bore his testimony to the caretaker who stood nearby. As he turned to the statue of Peter and pointed to the large set of keys in Peter’s right hand, he proclaimed: “The keys of priesthood authority which Peter held as President of the Church I now hold as President of the Church in this dispensation.” Then he stated to the caretaker, “You work every day with Apostles in stone, but today you are in the presence of living Apostles.” He then introduced President N. Eldon Tanner, Elder Thomas S. Monson, and Elder Boyd K. Packer. He presented the caretaker with a Book of Mormon in Danish, and bore his testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. The caretaker was moved to tears in acknowledgment of the Spirit he felt in the presence of a prophet and Apostles. He acknowledged to me as we left the church, “Today I have been in the presence of servants of God.”

One month later, Nese urged me to come to Brigham Young University. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The thing that held me back was the principle of eternal progression. “It just can’t be right.” I said, “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
I finally understood! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.

“Dad was on his first mission and was the mission secretary in charge of the travel preparations for the missionaries in Europe. When it came time for him and his companions to leave, he booked their passage on the big “unsinkable” ocean liner, the Titanic. However, one of the boys could not go then so Dad changed their departure date. When the boys heard that the Titanic had sunk, they all knelt down and thanked the Lord for preserving them.”

The weeks before Christmas were predictably hectic. I knew from past experience that there would be heavy demands on my time, but I had hoped that this year would be different. I wanted to be well organized—to have my shopping and Christmas preparations done far enough in advance that the pressures of my busy life would not interfere with the spirit of the Christmas season.
And this year was different—in fact, the pre-Christmas season presented more challenges than usual. As a member of the Tabernacle Choir, I had learned years ago that I must be ready to spend many hours at the Tabernacle at this time of year. The month of December is always crowded with special programs, extra rehearsals, and Christmas concerts. But this year, in addition to these activities, the choir was also preparing to leave on a concert tour to Israel on the day after Christmas! We had difficult music to learn which required several months of extra rehearsals. All of this, combined with my full-time work schedule and preparations for a work assignment following the choir’s tour, allowed me very little time for the joyful preparations for Christmas or for my family.
My widowed mother watched quietly as I tried to juggle my life in order to work everything in. I knew that she would like to have had me make more frequent visits, take her shopping once in a while, or just find the time to call on the phone more often. We always looked forward to having her come to dinner on Sundays, and she never complained about any lack of attention to her, but I knew that she was lonely and longed for companionship. Since my father died four years ago, there had been a great void in her life. They were eternal companions in every sense of the word. Whether working in the temple, beautifying their home, enjoying their children and grandchildren, or singing, they did it together! And now again, I knew that she was remembering the years gone by and those joyous Christmases with Dad. Those were times full of love and music as they sang together at many Christmas programs and family gatherings. And now she was alone.
My sister and I had helped Mother put up her Christmas tree and decorate her home for the holidays. We had done most of her shopping for her, but about two weeks before Christmas, Mother called, apologized for infringing on my busy schedule, and asked if I would mind taking her shopping for one afternoon. She wanted to add her personal touch to a few of the items we had already purchased. It was a welcome and delightful break from the frenzied schedule I had been keeping. We had lunch and spent a lovely afternoon together. The joy and the spirit of the season which I had not had time for before filled our hearts.
Just a few days after our afternoon together, Mother became ill with the flu. We were very concerned and kept a close watch on her at her home. She did not want to come and stay with us or with my sister, but insisted that she would be well soon. She apologized for being ill and for becoming a burden on us at such a busy time. After she suffered for several miserable days, her health seemed to improve, and we relaxed our vigil somewhat. She had predicted that she would be fine by Christmas, and that seemed to be the case.
The tempo and burdens of my life had only increased during the week that Mother was ill. It was three days before Christmas, the choir had just finished two Christmas concerts, I still had last-minute shopping to do, there were many projects to complete at the office, and in only four days we would be on our way to Israel. When my husband came into my office that afternoon, shut the door, and told me that Mother had passed away just an hour earlier, I had difficulty comprehending what he was saying. He had no explanations why this had happened—only the devastating news that she was gone. All that had been so important only minutes ago seemed to evaporate. I felt that time had stopped and that I had been suspended in some sort of vacuum.
For the next two days, my sisters and I went through the necessary motions and made preparations for Mother’s funeral. It was to be held the day after Christmas—the day the choir was leaving for Israel! Family members and friends enveloped us with love and concern, and we struggled to acknowledge the reality of what had happened. Under the circumstances, I had assumed I would not be able to make the trip to Israel; but very late one evening I received a telephone call telling me that arrangements had been made for me to travel and join the choir a few days later. I was so grateful for kind friends and their efforts in my behalf!
For the sake of the young children in the family as well as our own, we wanted Christmas to be as normal as possible. We continued to make preparations for our traditional Christmas Eve family dinner and for Christmas day, but we felt so empty—so alone. It just could not be the same! Each of us—and especially the children—felt the terrible emptiness and tried to understand why our mother and grandmother had been taken at this time.
Because of the holiday, we were advised to postpone having a viewing until just before the services, but the funeral directors invited us to come to the funeral home at any time the day before—Christmas day—and spend some time alone with Mother. Following our dinner on Christmas night, we left the children playing with their gifts and went to the funeral home.
We stood quietly around her casket and looked at our beautiful mother in her temple robes. She looked so serene, so happy. There was a spirit of peace and of love in that room—even one of happiness and joy. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the recent glorious reunion that must have taken place between my mother and father. I had the impression that if I listened carefully, I could again hear the angels singing as they did on that holy night long ago, and that the beautiful voices of my mother and father had joined that heavenly chorus. I imagined I could hear them singing, “Silent night! Holy night! … Sleep in heavenly peace.”
The understanding and comfort I had prayed for seemed to come to me as I stood there, and my worldly cares seemed far away. On that silent night, gathered with my loved ones, I thanked my Father in Heaven for that moment of heavenly peace.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled stop at a mining community named Mount Isa. As we entered the small airport at Mount Isa, a woman and her two children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my two children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared lessons and bore testimony.

Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly the loudspeaker announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has just been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.

We departed Mount Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.

Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had made on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow.”

One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by many tears.

As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

“Yippee!” Andrew yelled when he saw the batch of cookie dough that his mother was putting into the refrigerator. “That means that tomorrow is ‘Cookie Sunday!’”
“Yes,” replied his mother. “Do you remember what you must do to earn these cookies?”
“I remember. I just need to tell you one thing that I learned in sacrament meeting. That’s easy.”
“You’re right, Andrew. It’s too easy for a big boy like you. This time I want you to tell me three things that you learned.”
“Three!” Andrew took a closer look at the cookie dough. “Is it chocolate chip?”
His mother nodded. “You know, Andrew, listening longer will help you be reverent longer too.”
When the bishop stood up at church after the sacrament had been passed the next day, Andrew forgot to listen. He was busy looking at his favorite book about Jesus. He especially liked the picture of Jesus with the children. He liked to imagine that he was one of those children and that Jesus was smiling at him.
Mother tapped Andrew on the arm as the first speaker stood up. It was Samuel Jenkins, a friend of Andrew’s big brother. Andrew liked Samuel because he sometimes let Andrew play with his basketball. He gave Samuel a big smile, and Samuel smiled back! Then he started his talk. Andrew listened hard. Samuel said that he was saving his money to go on a mission. I’m saving my money, too, Andrew thought. He had a bank that had a place for his tithing, his missionary savings, and his spending money. He was saving his spending money to buy a red fire engine just like the one Toby had. Where is Toby today? he wondered. Andrew saw Toby’s dad and baby brother sitting in front of them, but Toby wasn’t there. Toby was his best friend, and he had taught Andrew how to tie his shoes. Andrew was leaning down to see if his shoes needed tying, when his mother tapped him on the back. Oh—oh, thought Andrew, I’m not listening any more.
Andrew looked up just in time to see Samuel sit down and another man take his place. The man’s name was Jethro Williams. He and his family had just moved into the ward. Andrew thought that Brother Williams had kind eyes. Brother Williams was introducing his family, so Andrew turned around to locate them. He didn’t see any boys his age in the family, but there was a little girl with pigtails. Andrew also looked around for Toby, but he didn’t see him. He did see his friend Jacob, though, and gave him a little wave. Andrew felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, so he quietly turned around and saw Brother Williams opening his scriptures.
One day I’ll have my own scriptures too, Andrew daydreamed. My scriptures will be black like Dad’s, with gold pages that whisper when you turn them. He leaned over and saw that a lot of words in Dad’s scriptures had red-pencil lines under them. That meant that the words were extra special.
Brother Williams was reading something about the Lamanites, so Andrew opened his Book of Mormon Storybook and turned to his favorite story about Samuel the Lamanite. He was still busy looking at the pictures when he heard the organ start to play. Is the meeting over already? Andrew wondered. No, it’s just a rest hymn, he decided as the congregation sang “The Spirit of God.” Andrew sang especially loud on the chorus. In Primary the chorister had said that when the children sang the chorus, they sounded like angels.
After the song, Sister Williams stood up. She had a soft voice that reminded Andrew of his Primary teacher. His Primary teacher often said, “Bless your heart.” Andrew listened hard to hear if Sister Williams would say that, too, but she didn’t. Instead she said another word a lot. She said, “thankful.” Andrew listened, and he counted on his fingers that she said it five times! She really is thankful. Andrew thought.
Then Sister Williams began to cry a little. Andrew used to feel funny when grown-ups cried in church, but his mother told him that people sometimes cry when they feel very happy inside because of their blessings. Andrew decided to count his own blessings. He thought of his new bike that he was learning to ride and of his pet gerbil, Blacky. Then he thought of Amanda, his baby sister, who was asleep on Dad’s lap. Andrew was reaching over to pat Amanda’s curly head when the organ began to play again. The meeting was almost over! This time it was a hymn that Andrew didn’t know, but he helped hold the book for his mother and hummed softly.
After dinner that afternoon, Andrew’s mother got out the bowl of cookie dough. “Well, Andrew,” she said, “Tell me what you learned today.”
Andrew thought hard. “Samuel Jenkins talked about saving for his mission. He told me that when he goes on his mission, he’ll give me his basketball! Isn’t that great?” Mother nodded. “Yes, that’s great. And I’m glad that you were listening when he talked about being a missionary. What else did you learn?”
“I learned that we have a new girl named Sarah Williams in our Primary class. Her father had her stand up in sacrament meeting. In Primary I found out that she likes chocolate chip cookies, just like me!”
Mother smiled. “OK, Andrew. That counts. Shall we take her some cookies to share with her family today?”
“OK, Mom.” Andrew’s eyes lit up. “And could we take some to Toby too? He wasn’t at church today because he’s sick.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Mother. “But first you need to tell me one more thing that you learned today.”
Andrew spoke slowly, “Well, Sister Williams was thankful for five things, and in church I could only think of three things that I was thankful for. But now I’ve thought of two more.”
“What are they?”
“I’m thankful for all my friends and for chocolate chip cookies to share with them!”

Nicole Miller used her head and her hands to help a lost deaf girl find her way home. When Nicole spent the night at her friend Amy Moats’s house, Amy taught her some sign language. Nicole caught on to the alphabet quickly. She had no idea she would need to use this new skill very soon. Two days later, on her way home from school, she and another friend found a little girl crying on the corner.
They tried to talk to her, but she didn’t answer and kept pointing at her ears. Nicole realized the girl must be deaf, and she used her hands to ask the girl’s name and where she lived.
Through phone calls and more sign language, Nicole helped her new friend find her way home. School had been let out early on that day, and the little girl tried to walk home instead of waiting for her mother to pick her up as usual.
Nicole is a Beehive in the Wenatchee Second Ward, and Amy is a Beehive in the Leavenworth Branch, both of the Wenatchee Washington Stake.

Recently, I witnessed a three-generation family participate in baptisms together for their ancestors. Even the grandmother participated—though she had some trepidation about going under the water herself. As she emerged from the water and hugged her husband, she had tears of joy. The grandfather and father then baptized each other and many of the grandchildren. What greater joy could a family experience together? Each temple has a family priority time to allow you as a family to schedule time in the baptistry.

Since I was baptized, over 11 million people have been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in a similar manner and by the same authority. They have been baptized in frozen lakes, the ocean, or ponds, some of which were dug for that purpose. One such pond has great historic significance. In 1840 Wilford Woodruff, then one of the Twelve Apostles, was serving a mission in England and felt impressed to go to a rural district near Ledbury. There he met John Benbow, who had a large farm and a small pond. John introduced him to a congregation of United Brethren who were eager to hear the gospel message. He later recorded in his journal that with no other help at hand on March 7, 1840, “I spent most of the … day in clearing out a pool of water and preparing it for baptizing, as I saw that many would receive that ordinance. I afterwards baptized six hundred persons in that pool of water.”

Rene and Myra Holganza of the Taytay First Ward, Cainta Philippines Stake in Metro Manila, have strong testimonies that the Lord blesses those who keep His commandments. Because good jobs are hard to find in the Philippines, the Holganzas spent nine years working in Japan. When they returned to Manila, however, financial troubles came in waves. Because of serious health problems and the accompanying medical bills, they had to mortgage their home. Rene was unable to find employment for some time, so they couldn’t make their mortgage payments, and the bank threatened to foreclose. Seeking assistance from the Church, they went to their bishop, who asked Rene if he was a full-tithe payer. “I said no,” Rene recalls. “He asked me if I intended to be a full-tithe payer. I said yes. So from that time on I did pay a full tithe and a little more to make up for the past.”
To pay their bills and avoid foreclosure on the mortgage, they tried to sell their home, but no one wanted to buy it. Because of a mudslide in a nearby neighborhood, nobody wanted to take a chance on property in the area, even though the price they were asking was below market value. Eventually they stopped trying to sell the house, expecting the bank to foreclose and sell the property at a very low price.
The Holganzas went to their bishop again, and he recommended that they fast and continue to pay tithing. He told them the Lord would bless them in their need. “So we fasted,” says Rene, “and I continued to pay my tithes and offerings, and I believed something would work out.”
Then one day a man approached the Holganzas unexpectedly and asked them if their house was for sale. They said yes, and he offered to buy it for more than their original asking price. With this money they were able to pay off their mortgage, eliminate almost all their debts, and pay the loan on the taxi Rene now drives to support his family. They see this blessing as a miracle and feel it is a direct result of keeping the law of tithes and offerings, exercising faith in the Lord, and following inspired counsel.

Some years ago in the early spring, I took my little niece Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along a creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating, as we would take a step, hesitate, reach, step forward, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthly floor, and we saw the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his great love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close.

Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go of Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands stuck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included gratitude for the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for the same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up, placing both arms around my neck, and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean, if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense security in our eternal relationship if I could somehow awaken within her a great eternal truth.

“Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us members of one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our brother, too, our elder brother.”

“Then what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by linking my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear! We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked. Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain: “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use His name.”

I pondered the answer to her simple questions. I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears so often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul: “… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them …” (D&C 20:77).

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon ourselves that sacred name and committing to try always to remember Him and keep His commandments?

While Shelly seemed secure and satisfied with the explanation given her at that time, over the years I have searched for deeper understanding of this sacred ordinance in which we renew our covenant each week to take upon ourselves His name. And while that usually occurs on Sunday, what does it mean on weekdays, and what difference does it make to a child, a youth, or an adult? Does it affect how we live our lives in the summer, winter, or fall? Should it? Can we afford to consider this sacred ordinance passively and allow it to become routine in nature?

I would now say to Shelly, “Yes, my dear, put my name with the Savior’s.” He said we could. He wants us to. He wants us to feel comfortable carrying his name.

As I held Shelly’s little hand in mine for one last squeeze before tiptoeing from her room that evening some years ago, a feeling of gratitude and reverence came flooding forth as I realized that while her hand had been in mine for most of the afternoon as I helped her through the creek, across the rocks, and over the tree and lifted her up to see the miracle of life unfolding in a robin’s nest, this child led me to begin a search that would lead me to a better understanding of a great eternal truth. King Benjamin explained it for us: “And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).

We can all be members of the same family. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t, consider Shelly’s question to me: Why don’t you stop? It may not always be easy, but with his help we can overcome.

A cooling breeze was starting up, and I could feel it lapping at the edges of something smoldering inside me.
“What’s the matter, Missy?” Leatrice asked. “You seem mad at somebody.”
We were kneeling on the damp lake bank beside the dock watching black fish, small shiny ones, darting among the green seaweed. Our knees were wet and cool, and the sun was shining warm on our backs.
Lee was dropping pebbles, trying to bomb the fish. “I wish we could stay here all summer,” she said. “Don’t you?” I didn’t answer, and she kept plopping little rocks into the water. Soon she stood up and came over to where I was.
I still didn’t answer, and Lee went over to the lawn by the cabin. She was good about minding her own business. She knew my problem wasn’t with her.
A little breeze was coming from the west. I walked into it, out to the end of the dock, and stood. The water was deep there. If I fell in, what would happen? A dumb question. Of course I’d just dog-paddle to shore. But what if I didn’t know how to swim? What then?
Behind me there was a new noise. I turned and Lee was coming, rowing the old tin boat. She pulled to the dock, and I stepped in over the side, staying low. She turned us with the oars and started rowing across the lake, north toward the Canada shore. She fastened her life jacket. It was a faded orange. I picked up the other one, a little wet from the boat’s bottom.
She rowed a long time without saying anything. We were facing backward, so the sun was in our faces.
“Did you tell Mom and Dad where we were going?” I asked.
“Yes,”
“What were they doing?”
“Mom is asleep with the baby. Dad is still reading those Columbus books for his talk.”
“Of course he is. He’s always reading, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, like you.”
It was true. Dad and I were a lot alike. In some things anyway. But I didn’t want to say that. Instead I said, “He probably is reading, unless he’s too busy yelling at somebody.”
Leatrice looked at me. “What do you mean, Missy? Dad doesn’t do that.”
“He sure used to. And John told me he remembers when Dad would really throw his weight around. Back when John was little. I sort of remember it too.”
“That doesn’t sound like the dad I know,” Lee said. She looked right at me, like she was trying to see inside. “I asked Dad to come out here with us, but he told me, ‘Not now.’”
“I could’ve saved you the trouble.”
We were getting out quite far. There were small waves now. Faint voices came from somewhere on the west shore. We carefully switched places, and I took the oars. I rowed hard until I began to sweat, even in the breeze. I was overdoing it and getting tired and less steady. Suddenly, I missed the water with the right oar. The left one caught and unbalanced me. I fell off the seat into the bottom of the boat. The fall hurt my elbow and scared me a little, but then I started laughing.
I was near Lee’s feet. She pulled the oars in, and then sat in the bottom of the boat with me. We stretched our legs up over the bow seat. The boat rocked gently in the water, like a cradle.
“What do they remind you of?” Lee pointed up at clouds high overhead, fluffy masses drifting east, each looking different from the others.
“That one looks like an old man with a beard. Do you see him?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, it does. He looks faraway, thinking his own thoughts.”
“Who is it?”
“Maybe Heavenly Father. That’s how he is. Faraway.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” I said.
“I don’t think it’s like that.”
“Well, I do. It’s like nothing is any use. I can’t manage to feel any other way.” I shifted positions, and it made the boat rock a little.
We lay for a long time, drifting, not talking. Finally Leatrice rowed home. As we were beaching the boat, it came to me that I should tell her something else that had been bothering me. “You know, Lee, in my Young Women class, Sister Norland asked me a question. We were pretending to be New Testament people. She said it would help us learn prayer language. She said, ‘Missy, doth thy father love thee?’ I was going to say ‘Yes, Sister Norland,’ but what came out was ‘Maybe, sometimes.’”
Lee took my hands in hers. Her eyes were a little wet. “Missy, it bothers me what you said before about Dad. Even if that was all true once, I don’t think you need to feel hard toward him. He was young, too. It’s got to be hard at first to learn to be a dad. You and I will probably need some forgiveness too for the mistakes we’ll make while we’re learning to be moms.”
Coming from her, it sounded right, like the truth.
That night we went to bed early, the little kids first, then Mom and Dad. Today had been the first day of vacation without rain. Leatrice said her prayers. I decided I better try. I didn’t kneel, but I tried to pray on the bed. “Help me get over this alone feeling … ,” but I didn’t feel any different after.
I lay and watched the trees’ shadows on the screen and the wall and thought about the world and the moon, floating in space alone, making their slow endless circuits, maybe running forever on automatic. Some of the Founding Fathers, I’d read, called it Deism—that God had set it all going and gone away. About there I faded off to sleep.
When I woke up, I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. The shadows and the moonlight were still there outside. Our bedroom door was ajar, and a faint shifting light was coming into the room. A mosquito was whining near my ear. I didn’t know if it was that or the feeble light that had disturbed me. I got up and looked into the living room where the little kids were asleep on the couches and on blankets on the floor.
Dad was kneeling by the cone fireplace in the center of the room. He was reaching inside it, doing something. I went over to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Hold the flashlight for me, Missy, will you? Mosquitoes are coming down the stovepipe.”
“So that’s how they’re sneaking in! We checked all the screens. Boy, aren’t they tricky?”
“It’s the first night with no fire. That must be why they’re bothering us now but not before.”
I wadded up papers and handed them to Dad. He pushed the last one into place and stood up. “That should keep the little devils out. I found them on the baby’s face.”
“Were they biting you, Dad?”
“No, I heard somebody crying out in their sleep. That’s how I knew. I heard it from the other room.”
That hit me. Sometimes I’d thought he didn’t hear much of anything from us.
“Pretty smart, Dad, your figuring out how they were getting in.”
“Thanks, Missy.” He put his arm around me and squeezed. It startled me. It had been a long time since he’d done that. It did feel good though.
“Good night. Remember to say your prayers.”
I went back into the bedroom and stood by the window. The moon was up there, floating and still. And there were night sounds, an insect orchestra pulsating. I could hear it through the closed window. I hadn’t heard it while I was asleep, and I hadn’t wakened when the little children cried out. Dad had. Why had he heard, and I hadn’t? Somehow that struck me as a necessary question. I stood and thought about it, but why it could be important wasn’t clear in my sleepiness.
I thought about my father and other fathers, and as I stood at the window the words came, those that my teacher Miss Carroll had us memorize:
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
In class Hamlet’s words had bothered me. Now I said them over several times. It seemed presuming and even arrogant to claim to be that faithful. Such lovely words, but could they be true for any man?
I went over and got back into bed. From there I could still see the moon, just right to show through my window. Oddly, it no longer seemed so distant and impersonal, but warmer and nearer. The moon sailed, and I drifted off to sleep.
Some indefinite time later, I again found myself awake. I was still hanging to a dream. There had been a powerful song in it, already undefined and indistinct, but the force of the music remained with me. And suddenly I had a comforting, understanding feeling. It was surprisingly strong, and it came to me like a revelation—that really there is a being who is as reliable, as fully reliable, in His love as Hamlet had claimed to be.
I lay still awhile and savored that amazing thought. Perhaps half an hour went by. The moon was past my window. I slipped from under the covers and knelt by the bed. I prayed, still cherishing the warmth of the new feeling. And with it I recognized another extraordinary impression, that I was being heard. The perception was almost tangible.
Leatrice said something in her sleep before I got into the bed, but she didn’t wake up. I thought I’d lay there in the moonlight and listen to the outside sounds and watch the shadows. And think about fathers.
But I didn’t. I went right to sleep.

President Packer told of a time in his life when he had a goal, but was unsure how to achieve it. After telling President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) of his problem, he said President Lee told him: “Boyd, you want to see the end from the beginning. You’re going to have to learn to take a few steps in the dark, and then the light will turn on before you.
“With that, I stepped into the unknown—into the dark—and the light went on, as it will with you,” President Packer said. “You move forward, but you move forward on the principles of the gospel, and you have an inner light.”

Answering my phone, I heard the excited voice of one of the local full-time missionaries telling me about a baptism to be held in a few days. Baptisms, of course, are always a reason for excitement among missionaries, but the name of the sister being baptized was unfamiliar to me. Yet the elder insisted that I attend the baptism because a surprise awaited me. He would not tell me more.
On the day of the baptism, I arrived at the church early to find out what the surprise was. But I did not know the young sister—Alice—who was getting baptized, and she gave no indication that she recognized me.
After the sweet, Spirit-filled baptism, Alice held a Book of Mormon as she bore testimony of its truthfulness and expressed gratitude for its teachings, especially its witness of the Savior. In her testimony, she told how the book had come to her. She had been working at a kiosk in a local shopping mall. One day a woman came by and gave the book to her boss. The boss was not interested and put it on a shelf.
A short time later, when the business was leaving the kiosk, the boss told Alice to throw the book away. But Alice was curious, briefly looked at the book, and asked if she could have it.
Alice took the Book of Mormon home, read it within a few weeks, and was convinced of its truth. But she didn’t know what to do. Some months later she found another job, where she worked with a Latter-day Saint. She asked him about the Book of Mormon and the Church, and he and his wife invited her to meet with the missionaries.
Then this sister said she would like to read the testimony written in the front of her Book of Mormon. The testimony was mine. I had placed it there before giving it to Alice’s boss at the kiosk.
The elders broke into delighted smiles. This was the sweetest surprise I had ever experienced in my life! After the baptismal service, my new sister in the gospel rushed to hug me.
I loved witnessing Alice’s baptism and hearing her humble testimony, gained by reading the Book of Mormon and praying as Moroni counsels: “If ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4).
A deep gratitude still fills me that I had been allowed to play a small part in helping one of God’s children receive the blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Mei Ling has also discussed the gospel with many of her school friends.

“In the beginning I didn’t think about helping my classmates know about the Church,” she said. “But by the beginning of December I was very happy in the Church and everybody wondered why I was so happy. They asked me about it so I told them about the gospel, brought them to meetings, and introduced them to the missionaries.

“But when I first took my friends to be taught by the missionaries, my friends were quite nervous. Besides, to hear, for the first time, a foreigner speaking Chinese, often creates communication problems. Sometimes the missionaries would ask them questions which they couldn’t make out and did not know how to answer. Afterward, my classmates would say that they dared not go back because they couldn’t understand everything.”

Mei Ling decided that perhaps she could help. She started talking to her friends prior to their meetings with the missionaries, bearing her own testimony, and reviewing some of the concepts that the missionaries would be teaching.

“For example, if they were going to be talking about where men go after death, I would make a chart for my classmates, on which I would list questions. Then I would also list revelations and commandments given to the prophets and outline some of the major ideas.”

The results have been impressive. “There are about 30 classmates of mine who have joined the Church.”