Gospel Story Finder

On the bus to work one morning, I took a window seat. Before long I became aware of a little bee trying to get itself out of a fix. It was trapped between the two glass panels of the window, and no matter how hard it tried, it couldn’t find its way out. Encased in a transparent prison, it could see freedom but couldn’t find an escape route. Perhaps frightened, it beat its wings furiously and desperately threw itself against the glass.
I’ve always been a person who didn’t like to see anyone or anything hurt. So after observing the bee for some time, I began to try to get it out of its difficulty. But lacking trust and understanding of my desire to help, it didn’t take advantage of the assistance I offered. In fact, all it did was continue to throw itself against the window. Finally I began to get a bit irritated.
Before I got to my stop and after the poor little bee had suffered much, it managed to get out of its predicament. From it I learned that we also can overcome trials—suffering less if we turn to and trust in Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, to whom all adversity is transparent.

Always there are preparations made for rain. Some years it rains so hard that the small individual tents cannot stay up. The previous year everyone had to crowd together under one of the big pavilion tents set up for the crafts and programs. It was the only shelter left standing. But what could have been miserable turned out to be fun.
“I didn’t want it to rain but then again I did. Being crowded together under one big tent was a bond among us last year. We had the same bond this year without the rain.” Tisha Perry

Rayleigh, Essex, England—
I was talking to a new employee working in my office, and I don’t know how we got around to it, but I mentioned I was Mormon. He appeared very interested, because he said he had recently visited another church and had found nothing there, but that he was looking for a church that made sense.
A young adult convention (conference) was coming up on Saturday, so I invited him along to that, and we had some good fun. He met a lot of new friends. I let him introduce himself, and he really participated. The next day, he came to our regular church meetings. It was fast Sunday, and we all came in to testimony meeting together.
Three times during the meeting he got up and walked out into the corridor. I saw him pacing up and down, still listening intently. Then, about ten minutes from the end of the meeting, he got up and bore his testimony! He said the Spirit had borne witness to him and told him the Church is true.
He came up to me after the meeting and asked if I could arrange to have the missionaries teach him. He’s having that done now. I’d only known him for a few days, but I was impressed to see how the Spirit could guide him. Just by fellowshipping him a little, we had helped him find the truth. This experience has taught me that member missionary work is important, even the basic things like just mentioning you’re Mormon.

On one occasion, I received the assignment to visit a stake located in the beautiful mountains of the Peruvian highlands. This unit of the Church had not been visited by a General Authority for more than two years because of the dangers involved in traveling there. After obtaining proper authorization, and with the help of the mission president, we commenced the five-hour trip that took us to the beautiful Mantaro River valley.
When we arrived at the stake center, the president and his counselors were waiting for us. Upon seeing us, their faces lit up with happiness and we joined in a strong, brotherly embrace. Some three years previously, two of our beloved missionaries had been killed in this city. After embracing the president close to my heart, trying to communicate to him all my love, I asked, “Have you suffered greatly during this time in which we haven’t been able to come?” He answered with his eyes filled with tears, “Yes, we have suffered greatly, but we have kept the faith.” This simple phrase touched our hearts, and we could feel that the hand of the Lord had been with them.
As we met with them, we were able to distinguish at least five principles which aided them to overcome their difficulties.
First: They never stopped trusting in the Lord, and they placed all of their faith in him. This was the foundation for their assurance. They trusted in the fact that he would protect and guide them. The Lord has said, “If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me” (Moro. 7:33).
Occasionally, in the midst of our desperation, we seek other ways, other guides. But those who counsel us are not always prepared to help, because they do not understand our spiritual needs. They are not prepared to give us the counsel and the revelation that we truly need.
We have the great example of the sons of Mosiah, who endured so much adversity and so many trials. Because of the trust they had in the Lord, “the Lord did visit them with his Spirit, and said unto them: Be comforted. And they were comforted. …
“Yet ye shall be patient in long-suffering and afflictions, that ye may show forth good examples unto them in me, and I will make an instrument of thee in my hands unto the salvation of many souls” (Alma 17:10–11).
Second: They remained faithful in prayer. Each member, whether adult, child, or adolescent, faithfully followed this holy practice each day, praying individually and as families with all of their faith. As we know, prayer is the means by which we communicate with our Heavenly Father. He listens to us because we are his children and he loves us, and he is anxious to bless us when we keep the commandments.
As the Savior instructed the Nephites, he taught them: “Therefore ye must always pray unto the Father in my name;
“And whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold it shall be given unto you” (3 Ne. 18:19–20). No one could have given them greater assurance that they would be heard by the Father than his own Son.
Third: They never stopped studying the scriptures. In the scriptures they found faith to overcome fear, solutions to their problems, divine comfort from the Master, the loving counsel of the Father, and especially the assurance of being guided in righteousness towards eternal life. “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me” (John 5:39). They lived this commandment even in the midst of all their difficulties. One of them said, “We have never been as close to the Lord as when we were reading the scriptures.”
Fourth: They implemented priesthood programs. Due to the fatal incident that had taken place there, it was necessary to remove full-time missionaries. In order to make up for the help that was lost, it became necessary to organize the returned missionaries so that they could teach the gospel to those who wanted to hear it. References came in from member families. Home teaching increased. Nobody was overlooked. Just as they said, they kept the faith.
Fifth: They humbled themselves before the Lord. They purified their lives, they repented, they tried to live together as Saints, sharing much of what they had, fasting when problems arose or when they were threatened. The Lord, speaking to Solomon said, “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land” (2 Chr. 7:14).
These simple yet powerful principles enabled them to sustain themselves, to be preserved, to remain faithful and active as members of the Church in that area.
What wonderful teachings we are able to find in these distant and isolated villages, where frequently it is difficult to sustain a religion or to live the principles of the gospel. Only their confidence in God and their faith in Jesus Christ sustain them, move them, and purify them.
Keeping the faith must also be a challenge for those who are alone in the Church, for those whose families are not converted, for those who have lost loved ones. Great courage is needed in order to continue onward, but we always have comfort from on high.
The faithful pioneers in the early days of the restored Church set a marvelous example of moving forward in faith despite adversity. It is difficult to conceive of the great loneliness of the people of the Church during those first years when they were a small group, the only Church members on all the face of the earth. They were persecuted, humiliated, rejected, and some were killed. The faith which they developed in the Lord, in the face of so much adversity, made them strong and humble at the same time.
President Kimball said regarding this theme, “Suffering can make Saints of people as they learn patience, long suffering and self-mastery. The sufferings of our Savior were part of his education” (“Tragedy or Destiny,” Brigham Young University Speeches of the Year, Provo, Utah, 6 Dec. 1955, p. 5).
Perhaps isolation makes small and distant towns and villages stronger and more pure.
At the close of the conference in that stake, I assured the members that God loved them, that the First Presidency and the Twelve Apostles were mindful of them, and that we were there to give them our testimony of the fact that they were part of the Church, that we had not forgotten them, and that we prayed for them. There was gratitude in their hearts, and again they smiled as humble members who had been comforted by the Spirit of the Lord. As he gave the closing prayer, a man nearly 80 years of age reminded the congregation that President Spencer W. Kimball had visited here, that he had blessed Mantaro Valley.
It made me think how fortunate so many of us are to be so often in the presence of the prophets of God and to receive their loving influence. But due to the worldwide growth of the Church, a large number of our good members have never had the privilege to be near one of these wonderful leaders at any time during their lives. But I testify to you that they love the General Authorities, that they are following their teachings, and that they await humbly and patiently the day in which they can be at the feet of the prophets.
The conditions of peoples and of nations change due to progress in the world; nevertheless, in many such places, be it in the frosty mountain heights, in the warm valleys, at the rivers’ edges, or in desert places, wherever members of our church are found, there will always be those who live these basic principles, and by so doing they bless the rest of the people. Let us face our earthly challenges courageously in spite of where we live, or through whatever difficult circumstances we may be called to endure. Let us keep the faith.

One of the most important parts of a successful home teaching visit is preparing and sharing a lesson. Every other month Brandon Stewart gives the lesson. Brandon has learned how to prepare a lesson by watching his senior companion, his father. Thanks to his dad’s good example, giving the lesson is Brandon’s favorite part of home teaching.
To prepare his lesson, Brandon starts by reading the First Presidency Message in the Ensign. He picks the parts he thinks may help the family he will be teaching. He then adds his personal experiences and feelings about the topic and concludes his lesson just as his father does, by bearing his testimony.

One day Sam accidentally hopped on his grandmother’s toe. He accidentally ate a plate of fresh cookies that his mother had baked for dinner. Then he accidentally cut pictures out of his father’s evening paper. The family was very upset with him.
“I can’t read a story to you today,” his grandmother said, waggling her sore toe in a basin of warm water. “My toe hurts too much.”
“There will be no dessert for dinner tonight,” his mother announced at dinner. “Sam ate it all up.”
After dinner, when his father sat down to read the evening paper and found only holes, he said, “Sam, go to your room and try very hard to find a way to keep from upsetting people.”
Sam climbed the stairs, saying to himself, “Grandmother doesn’t like me, Mother doesn’t like me, and Father doesn’t like me either, because I upset them. I have to make them like me again.”
Sam straddled a chair in his room and said to his electric train, “I could buy Grandmother a pair of wooden shoes, and then if I accidentally hopped on her toes, she wouldn’t be upset.”
He jumped up and down on his bed and said to his football, “I could buy Mother a bakery shop, and then she wouldn’t be upset if I accidentally ate some cookies.”
He stood on his head and said to the ceiling, “I could buy Father a newsstand. Then if I accidentally cut out pictures in a newspaper, he wouldn’t be upset.”
But when he shook his bank, which was shaped like a fat toad, and only seven pennies fell out, he knew he didn’t have quite enough money. So he said to himself, “I guess I’ll just have to sit in a chair and be still so I don’t upset anyone. Then they’ll like me.”
Sam went back downstairs. He didn’t slide down the banister. He sat quietly in the soft chair and folded his hands.
His grandmother looked at him over her sore toe. “You’re very quiet, Sam. Does your toe hurt too?”
“No, thank you,” Sam said.
His mother came in from the kitchen and looked at him. “Do you have a stomachache from eating too many cookies?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Sam said.
His father looked through a hole in his newspaper. “Would you like to walk to the drugstore for an ice cream cone?”
“No, thank you,” Sam said.
For the next hour Sam sat in the chair while the family kept watching him. After a while Grandmother said, “My toe feels better now. Sam, would you like me to read a story?”
“No, thank you,” Sam answered.
His mother felt his forehead. “Are you sick, Sam?”
“No, thank you,” Sam said.
“Would you like to watch television?” his father asked.
“No, thank you,” Sam replied.
Sam hoped the family would see how good he was and begin to like him again, because he didn’t know how much longer he could keep his feet from running.
Grandmother walked around the room exercising her toe and looking at him. His mother watched him over the blue sock she was mending, and his father kept staring at him through the holes in the newspaper.
Finally his mother jumped up from her chair.
“I’m so upset,” she said, “I’m going to call the doctor. I just know that Sam is sick.”
“I’m not sick!” Sam protested.
“But you aren’t running and playing and getting into mischief,” she said in a worried voice.
Sam’s eyes widened. “Do you like me if I get into mischief and upset all of you?”
“Oh, yes,” they all said. “We love you no matter what you do.”
“Yippee!” Sam shouted, as he jumped down from the chair. He raced around the room. His father and mother smiled happily because they were so glad that he wasn’t sick. And Grandmother kept smiling even when he accidentally hopped on her toe.

Our Neighborhood Grandma’s children live far away. We check on her every day. We head straight for her “jungle” room. There, potted plants with great, long arms and fingers beckon. The Neighborhood Grandma’s great, long arms and fingers answer with touches here and there as she sprinkles and splashes and sloshes each plant. Pools of water form on the floor.

We yank off our shoes and sprinkle and splash. We slosh and splat and make the puddles fly. Our Neighborhood Grandma kicks off her boots. Her practiced feet make the water sloosh and slop higher still.

When it’s time for us to go, she pouts, “You always leave in the middle of the fun. Stay and slosh all day!” We love our Neighborhood Grandma.

Fifth grade was a hard year for me. I’d had the same group of friends for several grades, and I thought that we would always be friends. But soon after fifth grade started, my friends started using bad language and acting in ways I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t like. They also started being mean to other kids in our class and talking about people behind their backs.
Eventually I became one of those kids my friends made fun of. They even gave me a mean nickname: Big-Lip Charlotte, or “BLC” for short. My feelings were so hurt. I started trying to avoid my friends at school, but it was hard because we were in the same class.
“Hey, guys!” I said one day at lunch, trying to be friendly and cheerful.
“Hey, BLC! Big-Lip Charlotte!” they chorused together as they made faces at me.
I ran away, trying to hold back tears. I ate lunch by myself and counted the minutes until I could go home.
“What’s wrong, honey?” asked Mom when she noticed my tear-stained cheeks after school.
“The kids who used to be my friends have started calling me a horrible name. I just don’t understand why they have to be so mean to me.” I started to cry again.
“Those kids shouldn’t be acting that way. But it really doesn’t matter what other people think of you. You’re beautiful, and you have no reason to listen to what those mean kids say.”
“But, Mom,” I said. “I see them every day. I do care what they think of me. And other people listen to what they say about me. How can I just ignore everyone?”
“Charlotte, the only opinions that really matter are yours and the Lord’s. If you’re OK with yourself and what you do, and if Heavenly Father is OK with your choices, it doesn’t matter what people call you or say about you. I promise.”
As I went to school the next few weeks, my old friends still laughed at me and called me names. But I soon found that I could walk around with peace in my heart. I knew that if Heavenly Father was OK with my big lips, then I could be too.
I was able to get through the rest of fifth grade. I ended up making new friends who didn’t call me names and who helped me feel good about myself. Most important, though, I learned that if Heavenly Father is pleased with who I am, then I don’t have to worry about what anyone else thinks.

About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.

Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing down my feelings and thoughts, I naturally included feelings and thoughts of a spiritual nature. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday—for example, how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what daily life was like when I was young.

I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. Now it’s automatic, and I plan to keep writing in it throughout my life.

Ten days ago, I had a beautiful and touching experience in the Salt Lake Temple, the building immediately to the east of this tabernacle. There in that holy sanctuary I had the privilege of sealing in marriage, in two separate but consecutive ceremonies, two beautiful young women who are twins, each to a handsome and able young man of her choice. That evening, a double wedding reception was held where hundreds of friends came to express their love and good wishes.
Mothers often shed tears at a wedding ceremony. Sisters also, and sometimes fathers. Seldom do grandparents show any emotion. But these beautiful girls were my own granddaughters, and I must confess that this old grandfather choked up and had a difficult time. I don’t understand why. Certainly it was a happy occasion, a fulfillment of dreams and prayers. Perhaps my tears were really an expression of joy and of gratitude to God for these lovely brides and their handsome young husbands. In sacred promises, they pledged their love and loyalty one to another for time and all eternity.

She was shy. I was outgoing. Why was she getting all the attention?
This question must have passed through my mind a million times every Sunday during my early teen years. Donna Gilliam was in my Beehive class, a quiet, pretty girl whose parents were deaf. Because of this she knew sign language perfectly. And all the adults thought that was so sweet. She would translate at Young Women functions, and the mothers would cry. She would translate at everything. And everyone, except me it seemed, was deeply moved.
That was a time in my life when I was selfish, wanting attention, wanting to be in the spotlight. But competing with Donna was impossible. In her shy way, she, and her family too, found a special place in our meetings and in the hearts of the ward members. Nevertheless, my jealousy continued.
A month after my fourteenth birthday, my mother was in a very serious car accident. Though she did not die, she suffered serious injuries. She had to stay in the hospital in traction for a month and a half. The accident happened in November, and it soon became clear that our mother would be spending Christmas in the hospital. Because it was important to include her in all the family activities we could, that meant we too would be spending Christmas in the hospital.
Others in my family looked forward to that Christmas as a “special experience” or more likely a growing experience. I viewed it as plain terrible.
I wasn’t much of a spiritual uplift to my family on Christmas Eve. I isolated myself in the corner of the hospital room and just sat there feeling sorry for myself. We were all just looking at each other, getting ready to open our Christmas presents, but somehow the usual anticipation and excitement were missing.
That’s when Donna walked in.
“Hello, Sister Fee,” she said quietly to my mother as her parents came in behind her. “We just came by for a minute. We thought we might sing.”
We all looked up in surprise. Her parents were deaf! How could they sing? I put my presents to the side and lifted my head in interest. I wasn’t exactly happy that they were going to sing, considering my jealousy of Donna, but I listened anyway.
I wasn’t at all prepared for the feelings that burst from within me as I listened to their soft voices sing “Silent Night.” Their hands moved in simultaneous motions, telling of the Christ child and heavenly peace. Tears spilled from my eyes, though I tried to control them. I heard the soft crying of my mother from the hospital bed. Donna’s eyes were tear-filled too. It became all too clear to me that I had been unfair to her.
When the song ended, their hands rested at their sides. We all looked at each other, overcome with emotion. Then they left, as quietly as they had come. Still in the corner of the room, I pondered the new perspective I had gained. Why had I ever been jealous of her? She had a very special talent. She and her family had brought a special spirit into our Christmas, changing it from a gloomy one into a celebration of renewal and hope. The Spirit assured me that my mom would be okay. That Spirit also brought me a new realization that I had talents too.
Right there in that hospital room I then promised myself that I would work on my own talents and stop being jealous of others. With that goal in mind, I found peace within myself. The song repeated softly in my head, “Silent night, holy night.”
All was calm in my heart.

May I share with you an account of an opportunity of service which came to me unexpectedly and in an unusual manner. I received a telephone call from a granddaughter of an old friend. She asked, “Do you remember Francis Brems, who was your Sunday School teacher?” I told her that I did. She continued, “He is now 105 years of age. He lives in a small care center but meets with the entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a Sunday School lesson. Last Sunday, Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson and tell him this. He’ll know what to do.’”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I could not speak to him, for he was deaf. I could not write a message for him to read, for he was blind. What was I to do? I was told that his family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting and then any message. I followed the procedure and took his finger and spelled on the palm of his hand T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward, tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands, and we read the movement of his lips. The message: “Thank you so much.”
Within that very week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. I received the telephone call and then met with the family as funeral arrangements were made. How thankful I am that a response to render service was not delayed.
The bridge of service invites us to cross over it frequently.

Before I left for that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, then a counselor in the First Presidency, talked to us missionaries and told us that people would love us. Then he added: “Now don’t get lifted up in the pride of your hearts and think that it is because you are better than other people. It will be because of what you bring to them.” When he made this statement, I could hardly understand what he meant, but before I left that mission, I understood.
As I visited the Saints in Amsterdam to bid them farewell, realizing that I might never see many of them again in this life, I shed a thousand more tears than I did when I left my loved ones to go to Holland. For instance, I called at the home of a family where my companion and I had been the first missionaries to visit their home, and the mother, a small woman, said with tears rolling down her cheeks, even down the front of her apron, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago [in those days the Church encouraged the Saints to immigrate to America; now it does not], but it is much harder to see you go.” Then I felt that I could understand what President Lund meant when he said: “The people will love you because of what you bring to them.”
I called on a brother who stood erect in the uniform of his country and who was old enough to be my father. He got down on his knees, took my hand in his, and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. I felt again that I could understand what President Lund meant when he said: “The people will love you because of what you bring to them.”

Melanie learned this important point. “As I grew up I was always looking at my older sister who could play the piano beautifully, sing, dance, paint, write, and draw. I kept trying to think of something she didn’t do that I could excel in. But because she did so much, I never thought of anything. So I just didn’t try.

“I was married and had two children when I began analyzing my feelings and discouragement at my lack of talents. I had always wanted to play the piano, but I had never wanted to take lessons because my sister played so well. Finally one day it hit me. Why should it matter that Jean plays piano well? What difference should that make? If I want to play, then I should go ahead and play because I want to learn.

“So I did. At first it bothered me that I was working on simple tunes while Jean was learning heavy classical pieces. But soon my enjoyment of music overcame that. Maybe I don’t play as well as my sister, and maybe I never will, but it matters less every day as I find fulfillment in my music. I’m so glad I finally stopped letting somebody else’s accomplishments slow my own progress.”

Most young people wonder what it would be like to actually sit at the controls of a rocket hurtling toward outer space. At the National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama, some young folks actually get to have an experience very close to that.
Justin Rich, 14, of the Layton 34th Ward, Layton Utah North Stake, and Joana Canals, 14, of the Hunter 5th Ward, Salt Lake Hunter East Stake, had that opportunity when they were accepted to the 1986 Space Camp, a five-day course that simulates the training received by astronauts. While in Huntsville, they learned about computers, gravity chambers, working with mechanical arms, and, under simulated conditions, about how to float and walk in space.
After three days of preparation and training, Justin and Joana donned space suits and participated in two simulated launchings and flights of the Spacelab module.
“I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut,” said Justin, who operated a robotic arm and conducted experiments similar to those performed by astronauts and scientists in space.
Joana, in one of her assignments as weather and tracking specialist for the ground control team, monitored weather conditions and kept track of the orbiter’s position during one of its flights.
Not only did Justin and Joana gain new insights and knowledge during their stay at Space Camp, they found themselves with many new friends. “Knowing other people had the same interests and making lots of new friends” was one of the best parts of camp, said Joana.

You’re going to say I should have arranged housing in advance. But if I had, where would I be now?
After filling out a mountain of forms at registration, I drove around Provo looking for a place to stay. Finally I picked out one of the new apartment units near the campus. The office girl told me they had a vacancy in number 33.
The apartment complex is in the shape of a big C, with a swimming pool and frisby field in the middle. I walked across the lawn to number 33 and knocked on the screen door. Nobody came, although I could hear voices inside. I knocked again.
...
We finished the dishes and sat down around the kitchen table. I took out a sheet of notebook paper and wrote at the top "Operation Engagement."
"We’ll make a list of the things a fellow looks for in an LDS girl. First: testimony. Second: a nice face, a good figure. Third: common interests. Fourth: sense of humor. Fifth: a supporting attitude."
"Let’s go down the list," Cher said. "Testimony. I’ve got one, Tony. I really do."
"Okay," I said. putting down a check on the paper.
"Face." She held out her hand, rotating it to the right and then to the left in a gesture familiar to Easterners. "I don’t know. What do you think?"
"It’s very good. Like a Greek goddess. Do you have many cavities?"
"Our water had fluoride—53% fewer cavities."
I put a check beside "Face."
"Wait," she said, "except for the glasses."
"You have to see."
"I’ll get contact lenses."
"I like you the way you are."
"It’s not you we’re trying to impress," she said coolly. Then, quickly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t kind."
"No problem."
"Figure?"
I cleared my throat. "Fine."
"You don’t think I’m too skinny?"
"No, ma’am."
"Aren’t you going to say anything more about the figure?"
"No, ma’am."
"Do I dress modestly enough?"
"You dress like a lady."
"Maybe I should dress less modestly to get B.J.’s attention."
"If he noticed you that way, I’d punch him out."
"Okay. Common interests." she said.
"I think B.J.’s biggest interest is himself. So you have a common interest."
"You don’t know him very well. Be constructive."
"Okay," I replied. "Boys from the West are crazy about deer hunting. Do you know anything about deer hunting?"
"What’s there to know?" she asked.
"Do you know how to clean a deer?"
"Do they get dirty?"
"I will ignore that. Probably your biggest common interest is the Church. Maybe that’s enough. Let’s see, sense of humor."
"I don’t think B. J. has a sense of humor."
"If you marry him, you’re going to need one. A supporting attitude. That means you help him on his campaigns. Or you try to do nice things for him, like cooking his favorite food to show him that he’s special to you. You’re doing fine, Cher."
"Tony, there’s one other thing. I have some of that Eastern cynicism. I’m not like your average coed. Maybe I seem too cynical. I need to be more sincere." She wrote down another word at the bottom of the list, sincerity.
The next afternoon when I came in after my lab, she was already working on supper.
"Tony, look what I picked up in the bookstore today. You’re not going to believe this. It’s perfume in a time-release capsule. You just open this little pill and scatter the tiny beads on your hair with this little can. The beads are programmed. The aroma starts out kind of mild, but in about three hours it’s really something. I’m going to put some on."
She applied the contents of one of the small capsules.
"Do you want to smell?"
"In the interests of science," I said.
"Let’s see. It’s 4:30 now. We’ll eat at 6:00. So if I can get around B. J. by 7:00, I’ll give him the full dose."
She started peeling potatoes. I sat at the table and thumbed through a book I was supposed to be reading. The perfume did change aroma as time went on.
"I pick up my contact lenses on Monday, Tony. And I’ve really worked at being sincere. Look at me."
She was standing with her head up, looking at the ceiling.
"What are you looking at the ceiling for?"
"I’m looking at the clouds as the sun breaks through."
"We’re in a room. There are no clouds," I said.
"I know. But you’ve seen those movies where they close with someone looking at the clouds. Now that’s a sincere look, right? Well, I’ve got it, right?"
I stood up, grabbed a dish towel, and draped it over her sincere face.
...
"That’s really great, B.J.," Cher said as she leaned down by him, ostensibly to look at his appointment book but really to allow him a whiff of "T + Three Hours and Counting" perfume.
It was at that moment I realized I loved Cher and didn’t want her to be around B.J.
Monday when I came in, Cher had her contact lenses.
"So how do you like me now?"
"You can really see me?"
"Sure."
"But why are you crying?" I asked.
"My eyes are just watering a little. It’ll clear up once I get used to the lenses."
"I can’t even see them on you. Let me get a little closer." I moved very close to her and looked into her eyes.
"How’s that?" she asked.
"Fine."
"I mean, can you see them now?"
"I’ll have to get closer."
"That’s close enough," she said, moving away.
"Are they hard to take out?"
"Not at all. You just put your finger here on the corner of your eye and blink." She put her other hand below her eye, but the lens missed her hand and fell to the floor.
"Just stay there, Cher. I’ll look for it." I got down on my hands and knees and started looking for it. I soon found the small, green, plastic lens. "Cher, can you see anything?"
"No. Why?"
"Nothing." I put the lens in my shirt pocket.
"Cher, maybe if you get down and help look for it."
She got down on her hands and knees also. "I think we should both concentrate our efforts over here where you were when you dropped it." I moved over by her.
We looked and looked. Finally we decided to take it one tile at a time.
"Tony? You have your hand on top of my hand," she said, looking down at our hands.
"Oh, I do. Do you want me to move it, Cher?"
"I don’t know. I can’t decide."
"Cher, you are really good looking."
"With contacts, I’ll look better. Maybe that’s been my trouble all along."
"No, I mean with glasses, and without the time-release perfume, and without the forced sincere look. You are beautiful. You don’t need any improvement."
"No, I’m not beautiful."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not," she insisted.
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not."
"Well, maybe not beautiful. But definitely pretty."
"So you don’t think I’m beautiful!"
"Yes, I do. But you wouldn’t accept it, so I figured I’d compromise. And Cher, you are sincere. In fact, you are just about the most sincere person I’ve ever met. Truly."
"Thank you. I try to be sincere. And Tony, you’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to without wondering what I’m supposed to say. With you I’m just myself."
"Cher, you have a nice hand."
"We shouldn’t be here alone like this."
"We’re not alone, Cher. Boris is on the couch, and Enrico is looking at the chalkboard."
"I know," she whispered, "but it’s like being alone."
"Cher, you are very special to me."
"I don’t want to hurt you, Tony."
"Who’s hurting? My knees are a little sore, that’s all."
"That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to fall in love with me."
"It’s too late. I already have. I want to marry you, and I’m asking you."
She started crying.
"If you want to wait before you give me an answer, that’s okay."
I got up to get her a box of tissues. When I returned, she was sitting on the chair in the kitchen. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and sat there.
"Tony, I really like you, but I’ve been thinking about B. J. for so long there’s no more room for anyone else in my heart. Can we be good friends?"
The next day I paid a visit to B.J.’s office in the Wilkinson Center. "B.J., I want to talk to you."
I told him about Cher and the way she felt about him. "The poor girl," he said. "I had no idea she felt so strongly about me."
"What are you going to do about it?" I asked him.
"I guess I’ll have to take my shirts to the cleaners and tell her to buzz off."
I slammed my hand down on his desk, breaking his plastic, desk name plate. "No, B.J., that’s not what you’re going to do. You’re going to take that girl out and try to fall in love with her. You are going to treat her like a queen, or some morning you’re going to wake up with your head shaved."
"Perhaps I should go out with her," he said quietly.
For the next several weeks, I stayed clear of Cher. I spent my late afternoons watching the Foucault pendulum swing, or listening to music, or taking long walks. Then I would go home around 8:00 and eat whatever was left. Cher was cooking for B. J. now. She made homemade wheat bread, beef stew, meatloaf—the things that B. J. liked.
It was especially bad when I knew they were going out, and I stayed away from campus for fear I’d see them together. Every couple seen from a distance looked like them. Every time I saw a girl with her head on some boy’s shoulder, I got cold chills. I wished I had never met her.
One weekend B. J. took Cher home with him to meet the family. That was the Saturday I ran. I got up early and put on sweat pants and sweat shirt and drove out to a country road. After parking the car I started running. Soon there was just the road, the pain in my side, and the crunch of my feet against the gravel. But the pain in my mind diminished as the pain in my side increased. So I kept on. Finally I collapsed on the side of the road. It was a long time before I could make myself get up and walk back to the car.
A couple of weeks later B. J. had to go to a conference of student leaders in New Mexico. That Tuesday night I entered the apartment at 8:00 expecting to see the usual empty kitchen with a plate of food in the refrigerator.
Cher was in the kitchen cooking. "I thought you were never coming," she said. "Sit down and get started."
She sat down across from me, and we said the blessing.
We got through the salad in silence. Removing the salad plate, she replaced it with a plate of lasagna and garlic bread.
"Why are you cooking with B. J. gone?"
"I get paid to cook here, remember?"
"But why did you wait for me? I’m two hours late."
"Your name Tony Versalino? Of Italian ancestry? You like Italian food?"
"Yes."
"That’s what it means."
"Cher?"
"Item five, a supporting attitude. ‘Like cooking his favorite food.’"
I put down my fork and held her hand. "What about B.J.?"
"He was a dream in my mind for all those years, but a dream with no reality. Besides, it finally occurred to me that it wasn’t necessary for all members of the Church to walk and talk and live like they came from Panguitch, Provo, or Parowan. I can’t fit the Utah-Mormon mold. I like the East, and I want to go back and help the Church grow there."
"You mean, the West is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there?" I caught the aroma of her perfume in the last stages of its time-release cycle. "Lady, what you need is a nice Mormon boy from Pennsylvania."
"I don’t want to push you, Tony."
"I’m your man."
"You know what Daddy is going to say?" Cher said. "‘Queens? He’s from Queens? I send you by plane across the country, you live in a desert for years, and you find a husband from Queens? For Queens, I could pay subway fare. Now you tell me you want to get married in a temple in Utah? We got plenty of temples in New York, and I know a rabbi …’"
For dessert we had a dish of Italian ice.

I had my mother to thank that I was cooking breakfast for 120 elderly people on Christmas morning. Instead of Santa waking us, the phone rang with a call for help from the nursing home where I worked part-time. No one, the head nurse explained, had shown up for work, and they were desperate. Could I possibly come down for a few hours. My mom said we all would!
Morning is everyone’s least favorite time except for Mom, who managed to be extra coherent with Christmas spirit as she announced the news. “Get up! They need us down at the home. We’ll have our Christmas later. First, we have to go cook lots of eggs.”
“What about the presents?” Todd and Christine, my younger brother and sister, wailed.
“We’ve waited all night,” Christine pleaded.
“It’ll be here when we get home. Now get the lead out. Mom and Dad are serious about this,” I said without much sympathy.
Somehow we managed to pile in the car, and we drove the two miles in silence. The nurse met us at the door looking disheveled and frantic. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. Not wasting any more time with gratitude, she pushed us towards the kitchen in unison. The only cook to show up that morning, Gladys, was rushing from stove to steam table, scooping out scrambled eggs and shouting orders to Frank, the janitor.
“Get moving on that O.J., will you,” Gladys said. She hadn’t noticed her bleary-eyed crew yet. “They’ll be down in 45 minutes, and I can’t find the bread, let alone the toaster.”
“Uhmmm, maybe we could be of help,” offered my dad, a bit reluctantly.
“We’re Diane’s family,” Mom introduced us, steering Todd and Chris over to the newly found toaster. “I think the children can make toast. Oh, by the way, I’m Irene, and this is my husband, Bill,” she pointed to Dad. “You know Diane, and the toast makers are Christine and Todd.”
“Hi,” muttered Chris and Todd together. They were thinking about opening presents, not about buttering toast.
Gladys stood in the middle of the kitchen supporting her latest batch of eggs. After a moment’s hesitation, she sized us all up and decided we’d do. Gladys shoved the bowl in Dad’s stomach, “Here, you look like an egg man to me. You can take over scrambling.”
Dad caught the bowl and his breath. “Sure, I can do that,” he gasped.
“And you, Diane,” Gladys turned me toward the hot cereal. “Oatmeal duty.”
We all set to work and before we knew it the breakfast rush was on, over, and breakfast dishes were just beginning.
“Mom, can’t we go home yet?” Christine whimpered, emphasizing yet. “It’s almost eight and every child in America, probably the entire world, has opened their gifts except us. Doesn’t that bother you even a little?”
Mom didn’t mince words. “No, not even a little, Chris,” she answered watching Dad and Todd squirt each other with the high powered hoses. “I know it isn’t easy to be here on Christmas, honey, but could we really be anywhere else?” When neither Chris or I responded, Mom started humming a cheery carol. “Let’s sing a song,” she encouraged.
I honestly wasn’t in the mood. Helping others was supposed to make a person feel good, but I was right there with Chris, wanting to be opening gifts and away from the smell of eggs and nursing home.
Mom continued without us, singing her favorite, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” At first she sang softly, but by the second verse she picked up the volume. Chris and I gave in, joining Mom, and sliding dishes down the metal chute on beat.
“Let’s sing ‘Rudolph,’” Todd shouted. “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” it was, Dad leading the family along in a loud baritone. This might have ended our musical contribution on that unusual Christmas morning, if it hadn’t been for Brother Greenwall.
I turned to pick up one of the last dish stacks, and there he stood, listening at the kitchen serving window. Brother Greenwall had lived in our neighborhood and attended church with us until his wife passed away.
“Hi, Brother Greenwall,” I said. His lonely eyes stared back, not recognizing me.
My dad smiled over his shoulder and walked to the window. “Harry, how are you? It’s Bill. Did you hear us singing away in here?” Dad chuckled, “Hope we didn’t disturb you.”
Harry Greenwall smiled back at Dad. I wasn’t sure if he remembered him or not, but something had been triggered. “Just a minute,” he muttered, hurrying off to the TV lounge.
Dad watched him go. “I wonder what he’s up to,” he said as Harry returned with two or three friends and their chairs. Before we figured out what Harry had in mind, he’d pushed open the door and seated them by the stove, then hobbled back to the TV room.
Eyebrows raised, Mom checked out the three seated in the kitchen. “Well, Bill, do you think we’re supposed to keep singing?” When no one volunteered an opinion she added, “I think Harry wants a performance.”
“Oh, Mom, do we have to?” Todd groaned, blasting his dishes with an extra hard squirt.
Dad put his arm around Todd, “You’ve heard of singing for your supper haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but …”
“Well, you get to sing for your presents.”
Chris and I laughed. “Come on and give me a hand helping Brother Greenwall with his friends,” said Dad.
By now Harry had returned, cramming in seven more concertgoers. Eight more joined the group, bringing the crowd to about twenty. Fully staffed, the kitchen never held more than eight people.
Harry stared at us without recognition, interested only in the music. Mom and Dad exchanged their you’d-better-do-something look, and Dad picked up the cue. “Well, folks, Harry thought you’d all like a little Christmas music.”
We sang, starting with family favorites like “Jingle Bells,” “Silent Night,” and “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” Actually, “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” is Dad’s favorite. Mom says his eyes twinkle when he sings that song. I looked over at Dad to catch that twinkle, and its shine filled me with warmth. My voice cracked, and I stopped singing, bowing my head to hide the tears.
Looking down at the floor, I felt love for each of those people listening to my family sing. I tried to join in the music, but the same feeling came again, repeating the impression. This time I knew the Savior wanted them to know of his love. Doubting myself, I hesitated a moment and was overwhelmed for the third time with the same desire to comfort them.
My family finished the last few measures of music, and I began without thinking, “I just want to tell you I know Jesus lives. He is concerned for you and loves you. I didn’t really want to come here today, but I’m glad we did. Most of all, I hope you can feel the Savior’s love for you like I have. He really wants you to know this.”
Dad put his arm around me. “I couldn’t give any of you a better gift at Christmas than the knowledge that Jesus lives, as Diane has said.”
The kitchen was silent for a minute, the spirit of Christ in our hearts. “Let’s sing a carol together,” Mom suggested. “What one would you like, Harry?”
Considering all the carols available and Harry’s love for Christmas music, we should have been surprised when his choice wasn’t a traditional Christmas song.
“I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” he said.
Everyone sang his “carol,” filling the kitchen with the words, “He lives, my kind, wise heav’nly Friend. He lives and loves me to the end.”
That day became a treasure and started a family tradition of Christmas Day service we enjoy. And, out of all the carols we sing at Christmastime, Harry’s carol is our favorite and the finest way to get a twinkle in any of our eyes.
By the way, my dad says we still sound the best in kitchens.

“Now then, girls, as we visit the Art Institute, always carry your folding stool over your left arm, walk in pairs, and absolutely no gum chewing!” There were guilty looks as the gum quickly disappeared, and the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake Mia Maids grinned as they reminded each other that the stools were to be carried over left arms, not right. (Carrying them on the left arm avoids bumping valuable paintings as tour groups move down the right-hand side of narrow halls.)
Then the entire group hurried to keep up with the 81-year-old, but incredibly energetic, tour guide, Miss Marianne English. It was quickly becoming evident that this morning’s cultural activity at the Art Institute of Chicago was going to be as entertaining as it would be enlightening.
First stop: a valuable glazed pottery horse, a statue from the T’ang Dynasty, which ruled China in the seventh through ninth centuries. Eyebrows raised with new interest as the girls learned of the ancient Chinese custom that insisted a man be buried with not just his live horse, but with his wife as well! Then Miss English whisked the group on down the marble hallways lined with Roman vases and Greek statues. They paused at an Italian sculpture of Heracles wrestling Anteus.
“Does anyone remember the story of this myth?” the guide asked. One girl surprised even herself as she related most of the details. Anteus, a giant who received his strength by always touching the earth, was finally bested by Heracles in a battle of wits and strength.
The group moved on toward a collection of Buddha statues, but the guide slowed her pace to a stroll and chatted with a couple of the girls, who were on the tour as part of the first-ever Mia Maid conference in the stake.
“They tell me you girls are a religious group on some kind of a retreat. You’re the ones who don’t believe in Christ, right?” A girl with long, blond hair smiled as she reassured the guide that Latter-day Saints most assuredly do believe in Christ. She, like most of the other girls, seemed accustomed to such questions. After all, Chicago and its suburbs include 7 million people plus, and the missionaries haven’t reached all of them yet.
Other girls thought back to their morning’s activity. The first stop had been a 50-foot, metal Picasso sculpture that dominates the Civic Center Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago. Elevators tunnel to the top of towering buildings around the courtyard, and of course, each girl clambered aboard one to rush with it up story after story for the reward of a look down. The Saturday-morning city was just beginning to allow slices of sunshine to sift through the skyscrapers.
The skyline was familiar to only a few of the Mia Maids, though some of them do occasionally shop downtown in enormous department stores with famous names like Marshall Fields, riding efficient commuter trains from their suburban homes many miles away. Members of the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake live anywhere from 50 blocks to 75 miles from the city’s “Loop,” the center downtown area encircled by elevated railways. In the cool early morning air on top of the building, Arlene and Carla had reminded each other about pigeons they had seen on Michigan Avenue and anticipated returning after the tour (when it would be warmer) to chase them. Then they had jumped back on the elevator, dropped back to the plaza, and gathered with the rest of the group.
“Put your stools down here, and we’ll look at Rembrandt’s painting Young Girl at the Open Half-door,” Miss English interrupted the young ladies’ reverie. “This painting is actually a design of circles. Look closely and you might see more than 20 circles.” Suddenly, for Pam and Brenda the painting became more than just a scene with a nice-looking girl. It became an intriguing puzzle.
Others were fascinated by the large brush strokes of El Greco or the loving smiles on portraits by Correggio, who reportedly learned his technique by studying the Mona Lisa.
The Art Institute’s collection is arranged chronologically, so a walk through the corridors is a walk through the centuries. The oldest painting dates about 1270 A.D., and the statues and other relics date centuries earlier still.
One of the highlights of the medieval collection was a series of paintings entitled The Ayala Altarpiece. The works were commissioned by a family of nobles in 14th-century Spain for the family tomb. Heavy with gold, the altarpiece depicts various scenes from the life of Christ, typical of the period when the major function of art was religious instruction (necessitated by the fact that only the priests could read).
“Medieval painters hadn’t yet learned to show distance,” Miss English explained. “The pictures look flat, with no sense of perspective, and the people have rigid, awkward bodies. Notice that it is essentially the position of the stiff hands that expresses the character’s surprise or sadness.”
Not far away, another Mia Maid was startled to meet the likeness of a young woman, cut in stone, atop a chiseled sarcophagus. “Actually,” Miss English confided, “the woman buried in this coffin was probably much older and not so beautiful as the lady you see lying here. It’s likely she had her likeness carved the way she wanted to be remembered.”
A short detour and the group jumped ahead to the 19th century, plopping down their stools in front of an impressionistic work by Claude Monet, The Beach at Sainte Adresse, one of his early paintings.
“Do you see here the careful shadings and detail we saw in Rembrandt?” the guide inquired. “Have the brush strokes melted into one realistic scene like the landscape of Venice we passed?”
A timid hand rose. “No. You see dabs of green and white in the ocean that aren’t blended in at all.”
“Right! The theory in impressionism is that the colors will mix in the mind. French artists like Monet, Renoir, and Degas broke the established rules and used less careful detail but lots of light, atmosphere, feeling, and color.” She described how the impressionists were at first rejected, but persisted in their scenes of rainbow colors without smooth shading. Details were lost, flowers became simply dots of paint, and reflections in water were favorite settings. American artist Mary Cassatt convinced many wealthy Americans to buy French paintings and bring them to the U.S. “I’m sure France wishes it had some of them back!” the guide said. “The people wouldn’t call them messy now, which is how they described them then.”
The girls didn’t realize how fast time was passing. They were amazed that art history could be so much fun. And the guide made it even more personal by pointing out things they could observe any time they went looking at art: “Learn to look for the color, shape, line, form, texture, and movement that always comprise a painting.”
—Colors may be bold, such as those in Delacroix’s The Lion Hunt, which underscore the deep emotions of the scene. Reds are fierce, dark clouds threatening. Or colors may be delicately shaded, as in the porcelainlike faces of Renoir’s women. Or they may be just flecks and spots, as in the “pointillism” of Seurat, who used tiny brush strokes of different colors to fill an entire picture. (For example, separate dots of blue and orange can be distinguished in the grass in Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, although when one takes a step back, the color appears as dark green.)
—Look for geometric shapes in the overall design. Are lines and forms sweeping or restful? The circles in Young Girl at the Open Half-door have already been described. In The Lion Hunt the oval arrangement of the characters ties together the animals and the hunters, intensifying the drama. In the Seurat painting just mentioned, the triangle shape of the island draws the audience back into the picture.
—The texture of the paint can be so smooth it is almost an unobservable part of the work or so heavy that it can’t be ignored. For example, in Picasso’s Place du Havre, Paris, there is such a heavy impasto (paint laid thickly on the canvas) that it’s almost like painting with candy. Especially in modern art, texture may be anything from smooth like a window pane to woolly like a sweater. The paint may not even cover all of the canvas.
—Some artists successfully create a sensation of movement. How? In On the Stage by Degas, skirts swirl, hair flies, and details in the foreground are blurred to give the illusion of captured motion.
“See what the artist is trying to tell you,” Miss English summarized. “Are the people realistic or only caricatures? Is he showing their character or only their costume? For example, look at the pitchfork-holding farmer and his wife portrayed in Grant Wood’s famous American Gothic, painted in 1930. What message about those two people do you find?
“Finally, if modern art baffles you, remember it encompasses all the elements of traditional art, except that the subject has been removed. Nature or the realistic scene serves merely as a jumping-off point. Some modern art, such as Picasso’s, is inspired by the medieval period. He has gone full circle back to the flat perspective.” Teenage heads nodded with new understanding, remembering the huge Picasso sculpture they had seen first thing that morning.
The tour was over. Later that night, traditional youth conference activities continued. There were workshops on dance, beauty, and grooming, and a spiritual discussion about testimonies, taught by Sister Jan Ryan, who joined the Church just 18 months ago. A court reporter, she compared witnessing the truth before a judge to testifying of the truth before one’s fellowman. There was also a testimony meeting.
The young ladies still recall the Friday evening group prayer, the games, the apple juice and doughnut refreshments, and the chatter before snoozing in sleeping bags. And, of course, the spiritual memories still linger, because they helped the girls see life through new eyes. In a different way, so did the art tour. By studying great artworks, the Mia Maids had, perhaps, gained some appreciation for the talent and love the Master Artist exhibited in creating the world, and they had learned to search for beauty where they hadn’t expected to find it before. That type of awareness may just be the true purpose of art.

I served my mission in Finland from 1959 to 1962. I loved the service, and I loved my companions. I had wonderful mission presidents. I loved the Finnish people and their language. I loved my mission. To this day, I hold my mission experiences as sacred and wonderful, and I often refer to them.
After this wonderful mission in Finland, I returned home and my bishop called me in for an interview. I loved my bishop, and I expected him to say: “We are so proud of you! You have represented the ward well, and we are sure you represented the Lord well.”
But instead, he looked at me and said, “Well, Dennis, are you converted?” It was a question I did not expect.
While I was thinking about this, the bishop helped me understand why he had asked me that question. He told me that we had wonderful people in our ward, but some of them would not accept a calling or pay their tithing or keep the Sabbath day holy.
My bishop wanted me to answer the question about being converted because that would determine how I lived my life. I told the bishop that I was indeed converted.
This question burned itself into my mind and into my heart. We must do the little things in our lives every day. They not only bring conversion, but they keep us converted.
I’m pleased with the small things in my life. And I’m grateful for my bishop. Every time I see him, I thank him for asking me that question.

Many years ago in a general conference, I spoke of how José de Souza Marques understood the words of the Savior that “if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may … become strong also.”6
Brother Marques knew the name of every sheep in his priests quorum and realized that Fernando was missing. He hunted for Fernando at his house, then looked for him at a friend’s home, and even went to the beach.
He finally found Fernando surfing in the ocean. He did not hesitate until the boat sank, like in Daniel’s story. He immediately entered the water to rescue his lost sheep, bringing him home rejoicing.7
He then ensured through continual ministering that Fernando never again would leave the fold.8
Allow me to update you on what has happened since Fernando was rescued and to share the joy that came from rescuing just one lost sheep. Fernando married his sweetheart, Maria, in the temple. They now have 5 children and 13 grandchildren, all of whom are active in the Church. Many other relatives and their families have also joined the Church. Together they have submitted thousands of their ancestors’ names to receive temple ordinances, and the blessings just keep coming.
Fernando is now serving as bishop for the third time, and he continues to rescue, just like he was rescued. He recently shared, “In our ward, we have 32 active young men of the Aaronic Priesthood, 21 of whom were rescued in the last 18 months.” As individuals, families, quorums, auxiliaries, classes, and home and visiting teachers, we can do that!