Gospel Story Finder

Tobogganing was a great sport in my younger days, and the foothills above our house offered unlimited slopes for our favorite sport. Our only trouble was that we didn’t have a toboggan large enough to hold more than one person.
One day when I was about ten years old, two of my friends asked me if I would go with them to an abandoned shack high on the hill. Its sides were made of corrugated iron, but they just hung loose, flapping in the breeze. With one end turned up, what a perfect toboggan a piece of that shack would make!
I hurried home after school to get a hammer. The only one I could find belonged to my father’s dental laboratory equipment. Father was not at home, so I took the hammer and went with my friends.
The snow was quite deep that winter and the days were short. We stayed longer than we had planned, and it began to get dark before we finished making our toboggan.
Finally we decided we better hurry home before it was too dark to see. There was no trail on the hill, and the snow came up above our knees. We started running down, jumping through the deep snow.
My hands were cold and half numb. All of a sudden I felt Father’s hammer slip through my fingers and fly into the snow behind me. I called to my friends to wait. They stopped to see what the trouble was, but soon they became impatient and insisted on going on.
I went back in my tracks to try and find the hammer, but it hadn’t even left a mark in the snow. I looked around frantically.
It was really getting dark now, and I was alone up on the hill in the deep snow. I knew I shouldn’t have taken my father’s hammer without his permission, for he needed the tool in his work. Now it was lost and I couldn’t find it!
As I sat in the snow, I was so sad and cold and lonely that I felt just like crying. Then I remembered how I had been taught that when I needed help, I could pray to our Heavenly Father—no matter where I was. I needed help, so I put my face in my hands and prayed with all my heart.
As I opened my eyes and rolled sideways to get up, my hand went down deep in the snow and touched something hard. I took hold of it and pulled it up through the snow. It was Father’s hammer!
I thanked our Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. Then I jumped up and hurried as fast as I could to overtake the other boys who were way ahead of me.
As I overtook them, I realized I had learned something of special importance that day—that we are never alone and that our prayers are heard and answered.

From the time the Aldous family enrolled in his school, Master Kim had been watching them closely. There was something about them that made them stand out from other people. “I was impressed by the support they gave each other,” he says. “And by the emphasis they put on family and personal growth and development.”
Eventually the Aldous family invited Master Kim to church. He began taking the missionary lessons and was baptized.

Let me tell you about the day I was baptized. It was July 15, and it was a very hot day. A woman was also baptized that day. The baptismal font had been handmade by the missionaries, and it wasn’t much to look at.
We were confirmed right after we were baptized. First, the sister was confirmed by Elder Lloyd. I sat down with the other members, closed my eyes, and quietly listened. Elder Lloyd confirmed her and then began to pronounce a blessing on her. However, Elder Lloyd stopped talking, so I opened my eyes and looked at him with an intent gaze.
Even today I can clearly remember that scene. Elder Lloyd’s eyes were overflowing with tears. And for the first time in my life, I experienced being enveloped in the Holy Spirit. And through the Holy Spirit I gained a sure knowledge that Elder Lloyd loved us and that God loved us.
Then it was my turn to be confirmed. Again it was Elder Lloyd. He placed his hands on top of my head and confirmed me a member of the Church, bestowed the gift of the Holy Ghost, and then began pronouncing a blessing. And again he stopped talking. However, I now understood what was happening. I truly knew through the Holy Ghost that the missionaries loved me and that God loved me.

Photograph from author
I grew up in a small, rural village in the Philippines. My family was poor. In the Philippines, if you don’t have money, you can’t go to school. Despite that obstacle, I was an ambitious young man.
I told my parents I wanted to become a doctor or a teacher or some kind of a professional, but they always told me to stop dreaming. We didn’t have money for me to go to a university. My parents wanted me to be content and not disappointed with my life.
“Being a professional is not for us,” they said. They didn’t believe that anything better was in store for our family than what we already had.
But that was before we joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
We lived far away from any cities, but the missionaries found us and kept coming back. They made many sacrifices to teach my family, but they changed our lives forever.
When we joined the Church, I learned I was a child of God with potential to grow and learn and become (see Moses 1:39; “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Gospel Library). With gospel knowledge, I knew it was time to elevate my family’s station. We were no longer just poor people from a small village—we were worthy sons and daughters of God deserving of blessings He has promised to His faithful followers.
The missionaries brought the gospel into my life, the gospel brought music into my life, and music got me a scholarship to attend the university. I earned a bachelor’s degree in secondary education and then a degree in music, majoring in choral conducting. Now I teach music at Liceo de Cagayan University and conduct the Liceo U High School Glee Club. I also lead a choir of members of the Church. Our mission is to share God’s truth through music.
Graduating from the university gave me a new life. I don’t know where I would be today without the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Everyone deserves the chance to learn, as I did, that they have a Heavenly Father and that He has blessed them with potential to grow and learn and become.

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my missionary companion, Elder Granville, informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway even though she wasn’t a member.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened. “Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she said.
“Flowers,” I said, “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers,” she interrupted. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the basket of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior companion I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the Missionary Training Center.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Trés bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us, they’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Trés bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned. “And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tous les jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she said. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for awhile.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed, when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! and she’s asking questions, good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.” If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior missionary companion. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactive members coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney” it began. “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

Several respondents felt society’s emphasis on personal appearance could lead to a form of idolatry. While a clean and healthy body is important, some people go to extraordinary lengths to emulate the beautiful men and women who smile from advertisements in magazines, in newspapers, and on television. Our society too often equates personal happiness with its definition of personal beauty. Trying unsuccessfully to emulate these unrealistic images, many people are constantly discontented. One of my students shared the following story:
“I had just moved away from my high school, where I was involved in everything. At my new school, I felt I was nobody. I knew no one, and no one knew me. I desperately wanted to be included.
“As I observed the popular crowd, I noticed that the girls who received attention were skinny and beautiful. Furthermore, slender girls graced the covers of magazines, billboards, and television screens. I looked at my body and realized it was not like theirs. I decided that the only way to gain back the popularity I had lost when I moved was to be skinny. So I began to diet.
“I was trying to lose only a few kilograms, but then I read a magazine article discussing qualities the men in the article looked for in women. The best-looking guy said, ‘A girl can never be too skinny.’ I concluded that in order for the guy I was interested in to pursue me, I had to be skinnier. I was still not associating with the popular crowd and did not know many people. Obviously, I was not thin enough.
“I continued to diet and exercise but still did not achieve the acceptance I wanted. Finally, after five months of starvation and depression, I was hospitalized, weighing only 40 kilograms.
“I was deceived. Being skinny does not bring happiness. Now I realize that happiness accompanies spiritual growth and comes from within. When one’s only focus is worldly popularity, it is difficult to progress spiritually. I have found that true happiness is obtained only through striving to please the Lord.”

In a sacrament meeting talk last fall, Scott said, “Everyone is a child of God. That means that we are all brothers and sisters. Being a child of God means that God is the Father of our spirits and that we can become like Him.

“Learning about our Father in Heaven and obeying His commandments in this life is like going to school for the job of becoming a God. I’ve found that my parents have rules similar to Heavenly Father’s: One—Thou shalt not steal. Two—Thou shalt not lie about what thou did to thy brother. Three—Thou shalt obey thy father and thy mother or thou shalt get a time-out.

“All of us have trials in our lives. Some are permanent and some are temporary. We can learn from our trials if we have a positive attitude. My disease is a permanent trial. I am learning to practice self-control because when kids make fun of me, I want to pound their faces in. The kids in my class used to call me names because I am short for my age and my belly sticks out. I had to learn to ignore their comments because they did not understand. Now that I am in sixth grade, the kids who know me don’t make fun of me anymore. Being a child of God helps me understand the things that happen in my life.”

Betsy walked into her mom’s room, holding a pair of scissors, a book, and a box of jumbo crayons. “Will you help me cut out and color my paper dolls?” she asked.
“Maybe later honey,” answered Mom. “I still have housework to do before our company comes.”
Betsy walked back to her room and flopped down on her bed. If only Mom weren’t so busy, she thought, we could spend some time together. Looking up, she noticed something on the cluttered bulletin board nailed to her wall. A pink paper hand dangled from a thumbtack. Betsy read the words printed across the hand: “I’ll be a helping hand.” Sister Summers had helped Betsy and her classmates each make one in Primary.
Betsy had a great idea! She quickly straightened her room, then tiptoed to the bathroom and cleaned off the countertop. Next she crept into her brother’s room, made his bed, and put away his toys. Then she slipped into the laundry room, pulled the towels from the dryer, folded them neatly, and placed them on top of the washer. She heard Mom’s footsteps as she sneaked back to her room to wait.
Betsy grinned when her mom’s happy face appeared in the doorway. “You’ve been quietly busy, haven’t you?” asked Mom as she hugged Betsy.
“I thought if I helped you with your work, you would have more time to spend with me,” said Betsy.
“You were right,” said Mom. “My fingers are ready for cutting and coloring.”
As Betsy snuggled close to her mom, she was glad she had helped her—not just so Mom could spend more time with her, but because she had a wonderfully warm feeling inside!

The Laurels of the West Weber First Ward, Ogden Utah Weber North Stake, were pleased to discover that they all, including their leader, received their Young Womanhood awards at the same time.
During the year, the girls learned to make quilts and gave four quilts to the bishop to distribute to members of the ward. They organized an adopt-a-grandmother program where the girls chose an elderly lady to visit, care about, and bake goodies for. The girls have learned skills, shared talents and hobbies, and learned more about life.

A true story from the USA.
“What’s this, Mom?” Sadie pulled a big tin can out of the back of the cupboard. “It has no label on it.”
“I forgot about that,” Mom said. “The labels had come off some canned goods, so the store was selling them for cheap. I bought one. I figured it was probably canned peas.”
Sadie made a face. Canned peas were not her favorite.
Mom picked up the can and turned it over. “They’ll go bad soon. We’d better eat them today.” She put the can on the table.
“What’s that?” Sadie’s big brother, Jason, asked.
“Who knows?” Sadie said. “Mom thinks it’s peas.”
Jason shook the can. “Doesn’t sound like peas. My guess is beans.”
That gave Sadie an idea. She grabbed some tape and a marker and wrote “peas” on one piece of paper and “beans” on another. She taped them to the can.
Then she thought for a minute and wrote “tomato sauce” on another piece.
Just then Dad came into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“We’re playing a game,” Mom said. “Guess what’s in the can.”
Dad picked up the can, shook it hard, and gave it a sniff. “Mushrooms!” he announced.
Everyone groaned. “Not mushrooms!” Sadie said. That was worse than peas, beans, and tomato sauce. “Maybe we should just throw the can away.”
“Aren’t you curious to know what’s really inside?” asked Mom.
Dad grabbed the can opener. “I am!”
As Dad opened the can, Sadie covered her eyes. But when he pulled back the lid, she was surprised. The can was full of delicious fruit.
“Yummy!” she said as she looked at the cut-up pears, grapes, cherries, and peaches.
Jason brought over bowls and spoons. “Let’s eat!”
Sadie spooned some fruit from the can into her bowl. “I can’t believe we were all wrong,” she said. “I was sure there was something yucky inside.”
“Do we ever label people like that?” asked Mom.
“What do you mean?” Sadie asked.
Dad set his bowl on the table. “We decide what they are like on the inside, when all we can see is the outside.”
Sadie thought about that. “When Samara was new at school, I thought she wasn’t friendly. But then I learned she just couldn’t speak our language very well. Now we play all the time!”
“That’s a good example,” said Mom.
“Sometimes I feel labeled,” Jason said softly. “Kids at school say I only get good grades because the teacher likes me. But the truth is, I work hard and do all my homework.”
“Labels can hurt, can’t they?” said Dad.
Jason nodded.
Sadie finished her last bite of fruit. “But are all labels bad? At the store you need to know what you’re actually buying.”
“You’re right,” Dad said. “So when are labels good?”
Jason held up his spoon. “When they’re true!”
“And who knows what’s truly inside a person?” asked Mom.
“Heavenly Father,” Sadie and Jason said together.
“I get it!” Sadie said. “I am a child of God. That’s the right label for me.”
“And me,” said Jason.
“And me!” said Dad.
“For everyone.” Mom smiled. “So we shouldn’t label people based on what we see on the outside, or believe false labels given to us. Because only God knows what we truly are inside.”
Sadie wrote on a new piece of tape and stuck it on her sweater. “A child of God,” she said. Sadie smiled. She liked that label best of all.

As a boy, I learned a great lesson of faith and sacrifice as I worked on my grandfather’s farm during the terrible economic depression of the 1930s. The taxes on the farm were unpaid, and Grandfather, like so many, had no money. There was a drought in the land, and some cows and horses were dying for lack of grass and hay. One day when we were harvesting what little hay there was in the field, Grandfather told us to take the wagon to the corner of the field where the best stand of hay was, fill the wagon as full as we could, and take it to the tithing yard as payment of his tithing.
I wondered how Grandfather could use the hay to pay tithing when some of the cows that we were depending upon to sustain us might starve. I even questioned if the Lord expected that much sacrifice. Ultimately I marveled at his great faith that somehow the Lord would provide. The legacy of faith he passed on to his posterity was far greater than money, because he established in the minds of his children and grandchildren that he loved the Lord and His holy work more than earthly things. Grandfather never became wealthy, but he died at peace with the Lord and with himself.

The summer before my mission ended, I was serving with a missionary named Elder Causse. He was from a branch in Bourdeaux, France, a place I had once considered “out there in the mission field.”
One morning my mission president called me into his office and told me my father would be calling. When the phone rang, the president excused himself and left me alone. I was apprehensive as I picked up the phone.
My father greeted me, then told me his cancer had relapsed. He would again go through chemotherapy. I then spoke to my mother, who told me our ward was going to fast again. I said I would join in the fast as well. After I hung the phone up, I wiped away a few tears and walked out of the office.
On the way back to our assigned area, I explained the situation to Elder Causse. He promised to fast with me, and his promise gave me comfort. But he did not stop there. He wrote to his family in France and told them what had happened. They, too, said that they would fast for my father and that they would ask the members of the Bourdeaux Branch to join the fast as well. I was astounded that they would fast for the health of a man they did not know.
At that moment, the Spirit spoke softly to me, and suddenly I understood what it means to be “fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). We are of one faith, united in the gospel with bonds stronger than illness or death. We are truly brothers and sisters. None of us is a stranger, no matter what land we happen to worship in.

It was a lazy day in August. The sun was hot, and Tommy and Elija were lying on the ground near the creek, enjoying the shade of a big cottonwood tree. They had been assigned to watch the thirty head of cattle, which were grazing a half mile upstream.
“Herding cattle might be important,” said Tommy, “but it isn’t very exciting.”
Just then the cattle started to low. The boys heard them moving around as if they were frightened. “Something is bothering them,” said Elija. “Let’s see what it is.”
In a moment the two boys were running toward the cattle, but they stopped short when they saw a small band of Indians coming toward them. They had no way of knowing whether or not they were friendly. But Tommy knew that the Omaha Indians had given the Mormon pioneers permission to camp on their land for the winter and to use their water and their timber.
When the boys came within talking distance, a young Indian stepped forward and spoke to them in halting English. “Last night our enemies, the Iowas, attacked our camp. All of our men except Chief Big Head and I were on a hunting trip. The Iowas took our horses and all of our food. They wounded many women and children. Chief Big Head they left for dead. He will die if he does not get help.”
Tommy looked down on the willow bed that the Indians had made for their chief. What he saw made him want to close his eyes.
“I’ll go for help,” he said.
“I’ll go with you,” said Elija.
The young Indian put his arm across Elija’s chest to keep him from going. “You stay here till boy gets back.”
Tommy knew that Elija’s safety depended on his speedy return, so he ran almost all of the two miles to Winter Quarters.
He went at once to the home of his bishop and told him what had happened. “The Indians really need help,” he concluded, “and they’re keeping Elija with them to make sure I bring some back.”
Bishop Morley listened quietly; then he put his arm around the boy to comfort him while he thought about what to do. “We must find Brigham Young,” he decided. “He might be down at the ferry. You take my horse and ride down there as fast as you can. In the meantime I will look around here.”
The ferry was twelve miles away, and it took Tommy an hour to get there. When he arrived, he found Brigham Young and told him his story.
“We will help the Indians, of course,” Brigham Young said, “but our first concern is for Elija. You must get back to him as soon as possible. Take your wagon and ask Bishop Morley to take his. These two wagons should be enough to bring the badly wounded to Winter Quarters. I’ll meet you at my house.”
Bishop Morley was waiting for Tommy. They took the two wagons and went to get Elija and the Indians.
When they came to the small sad camp, Elija ran up and began talking to Tommy. “At first they were afraid I would run away,” said Elija, “but when I took off my shirt and wet it in the creek so I could cool the forehead of Chief Big Head, they knew I could be trusted.”
“I’m so glad you are all right,” Tommy said.
Bishop Morley and the young Indian helped Chief Big Head into Tommy’s wagon, and the boys started back to Winter Quarters. The other Indians who were badly wounded were put into the Morley wagon. The rest of the Indians walked beside it.
The sun was almost setting when the wagons arrived at the home of Brigham Young. He soon determined that the Indian chief would need special care. He turned to Tommy and said, “Please go and ask your mother if she could take Chief Big Head into her home and nurse him back to health.”
Tommy was off in a flash. He returned in a few minutes with his mother, who said, “Of course, I’ll take care of him.”
Brigham Young smiled and said, “You won’t be sorry. An Indian never forgets a kindness.”
The weeks that followed were anxious ones for Tommy and his mother. Chief Big Head was very sick and needed constant care. Either Tommy or his mother stayed day and night by his side. Then one day, without any warning, the Indian got out of bed. “Chief Big Head well,” he declared. “I must go to my people.”
That night he left Winter Quarters and took with him all of the Indians who had been staying there.

“What took you so long?” Robby asked as I stomped out the back door and into the backyard, where he and Ryan were waiting for me.
“I’ve been hauling out the garbage,” I grumbled, dropping down under the cherry tree, “and I’m sick of it. All I do at home is work! I have to make my bed when I get up, clean my room, hang my clothes up, take a bath at night, work in the garden, empty the garbage. Brother! All I do is work, work, work. And if I even look cross-eyed at Annie or Sarah, they start complaining and Mom and Dad yell at me for teasing them.”
“You have it pretty tough all right,” Robby muttered, sitting next to me, “but no worse than I do. I have a hundred chores to do too. That’s the trouble with being a kid. Everybody is always bossing you around and making you do things.”
“I can hardly wait until I’m a dad,” Ryan said with a smile. “I’m not going to do anything that I don’t want to do. I’ll make my kids do everything.”
“You’ll still have to go to work,” Robby pointed out. “Dads do have to go to work, you know.”
“Yes, but they do fun work,” Ryan said. “All my dad does is sit at a desk and sign papers and talk on the phone.”
“That’s why he gets to boss you around,” Robby pointed out. “He makes all the money.”
“Then if we were making our own money, we could do anything we wanted.”
Ryan shook his head. “I don’t think my dad would care how much money I made. He’d still boss me around.”
“Our parents couldn’t boss us around if we weren’t around to boss,” I said, excited. “Let’s leave home and be our own bosses. I already have a little over six dollars.”
“I have four dollars and twenty-three cents,” Robby volunteered.
“And I have five dollars and two quarters,” Ryan added. “That means that we have”—he closed his eyes and started counting on his fingers—“almost sixteen dollars!”
“And we could get more, lots more,” I said. “We could collect cans and sell them to the store.”
“Sister Wheeler pays me to run errands for her,” Ryan put in.
“And sometimes Brother Randall pays me to rake the grass after he’s mowed,” Robby added.
“Wow!” I declared. “We’ll have tons of money. Just think—no more chores!”
“But where would we stay?” Robby asked.
We sat down, put our chins in our hands, and did some hard thinking. “The fort!” I suddenly burst out.
We all laughed out loud because we were so excited. There was a vacant lot behind the Petersons’ place a couple of blocks away. It was filled with old boards, abandoned cars, big metal drums, and lots of other good junk. We had used some of the boards to make ourselves a fort between two old cars.
“That’s it!” Ricky agreed. “We’ll live in the fort.”
“And if we live there,” Ryan added, “we won’t have to worry about making our beds or doing chores or anything.”
“Do you suppose our moms will care if we run off and live in the fort?” Robby wondered aloud.
I gulped. “Well,” I mumbled, “I don’t think that we should ask them. But,” I added quickly, “we can leave them a note.”
We stood up. I was a little scared, but I just knew that I’d have to leave home or always get bossed around and have a million chores to do.
It didn’t take long to pack my things. I grabbed two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, a pair of socks, my basketball shoes, my football, and the little can that held my money. I rolled everything up in two blankets and tucked them under my arm. Just before I slipped out again, I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote, “I’ve gone to live in the fort with Robby and Ryan. Somebody else will have to do my chores. Don’t worry, we’re getting jobs. I’ll come back to visit.”
A half hour later we were pulling Ryan’s loaded red wagon toward the fort and laughing and talking. We could hardly believe how lucky we were. We’d all been able to pack our things and slip back outside without being seen.
When we reached the fort, we spread our blankets on the ground inside to sleep on, then stuffed everything else into the corners. The place didn’t look nearly as big as we remembered it. Everything fit, but just barely.
For a few minutes we just sat cross-legged on the floor of the fort and looked around and grinned. Boy, were we proud of our new place!
“The first thing that we’d better do is get some food,” I finally suggested. “We can take the wagon so that if we find any cans along the way, we can pick them up. And we can haul all our food back in the wagon.”
By the time we reached the store, the wagon was full of cans. A checker took us to a scale at the back of the store. “That comes to fifty-two cents,” she said.
“Fifty-two cents!” We all gasped. “Is that all?”
We added the money to what we already had, grabbed a shopping cart, and started down the aisles. “What do we need?” I asked.
“I want some soda pop,” Robby spoke out.
“And we just have to get some candy and some doughnuts,” Ryan added.
“And I want some cookies and potato chips,” I said. “They’re my favorites.”
It was great to be able to buy anything that we wanted without anybody telling us no.
“Is that about enough?” I asked.
“We probably ought to get some good food, too,” Robby muttered.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Let’s get some cereal.”
We grabbed a box of sugar-coated cereal and a jug of milk and pushed the cart to the checkout counter. “That will be twenty-one dollars and eighty-seven cents,” the lady announced with a smile.
“Twenty-one dollars!” I yelped. I looked over at Ryan and Robby. All of us studied our groceries. “Let’s put these back,” I said, grabbing the cereal and milk and one bag of candy. “We don’t need them for a few days. We’ve had enough good stuff at home.”
It was way past noon when we made it back to the fort. And we had been so hungry that we munched on doughnuts, granola bars, cookies, and licorice as we walked.
When we got there, I asked, “Should we have lunch now?”
Ryan made a face. “I don’t want to eat anything,” he moaned. “My stomach is making funny noises, and it feels as though it’s going to pop. I think I’ll lie down for a minute.”
“You’re not going to take a nap, are you?” I gasped. “We don’t have to take naps.”
“That’s right,” Ryan said, sitting up.
So we just sat in the fort and munched on chips and talked about how great it was to be on our own. Pretty soon it got warm inside the fort, and I began to yawn and stretch. Finally I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I lay on my blanket and went to sleep.
It was starting to get dark when we finally woke up. We sat up and looked around. I grabbed a bag of chips, and Ryan and Robby started on a bag of candy. We tried to wash everything down with soda pop, but it was warm and just gagged us.
“My hands are sure sticky,” Robby muttered. “I sure wish I could wash my hands. I wouldn’t mind a bath.”
The sun had gone down, and the only light in the fort came from the sunset’s last glow. Once a cat scratched across our roof and we all jumped. A while later a dog barked.
“Maybe we ought to have some supper and go to bed,” I suggested in a whisper. “We’ll have to get up early and find work.”
“What’s for supper?” Ryan asked.
“We could have some more cookies or marshmallows or—”
“Yuck!” Robby gagged. “I don’t want any supper if that’s all there is.”
“Me either,” Ryan muttered.
We were quiet again, just sitting and listening.
“You know,” Robby whispered after a while, “I didn’t really have a lot of chores at home.”
“Me either,” Ryan agreed. “Mom did lots more than I did. She had to wash the dishes and the clothes. She made dinner. Why, she was working all the time. And she didn’t ever get to play.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Moms never have it too good when it comes to doing chores. Everybody did chores around my place too. I wasn’t the only one that had to take out the garbage. My sisters helped, too, and had other things to do.”
“I’m tired of being sticky,” Robby whined. “And I’m tired of being scrunched up in this dirty old fort.”
“Do you know what I could be doing if I was home?” Ryan asked. “I could be playing catch or working in the garden with Dad. Shoot! I didn’t mind working in the garden when Dad was there. He made it fun and would tell me stories.”
We were quiet for a while. Then Robby started to sniffle. “Do you think our moms and dads would let us come home?”
“We could ask them tomorrow,” I muttered. “We could—”
“I don’t want to go home tomorrow,” Robby whimpered. “I want to go home right now. I’m sick of doughnuts and cookies and junk and this old fort. It’s all your fault,” he accused me, jabbing a finger in my direction. “It was your big idea to run away!”
I ducked my head. “Maybe they haven’t found our notes yet,” I offered.
“I don’t care if they’ve found my note or not!” Robby burst out. “I’m going home right now.” He didn’t even wait to pick up his things. He just started out the door and headed for home.
“Well, if he’s going,” Ryan said, “I’m going too. You can have all the rest of the junk we bought.”
I didn’t stay there alone very long. I grabbed my blankets and clothes and started for home.
It seemed awfully late, but the porch light was still on and so were some of the lights in the house. I was about to walk inside, when I remembered that I didn’t live there anymore. So I reached up and rang the doorbell. The door flew open, and there was Dad. “Well, hello, stranger.”
“Did you find my note?” I blurted, looking down at the floor.
“Your mom said something about a note.”
I swallowed hard. “Well, then I guess that I’m just coming for a visit,” I said, disappointed.
“Well, stranger,” Dad said, “you can visit us anytime. Come in. I’ll tell your mom that you’re here.”
He didn’t have to, though. She’d heard me talking and came running from the kitchen. She hugged me and kissed me. I didn’t even pull away as I usually did. It felt good to have her squeeze me.
“Did you get a good job?” Dad asked.
“Well, we sold some cans.”
“How long can you stay?” Dad asked.
“How long will you let me stay?” I whispered.
“Oh, you could stay an hour or so,” Dad answered. “You’re probably anxious to get back to your fort and Robby and Ryan.”
“Not really,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Well, if you’re not in a hurry to get back to your fort,” Dad said, “why don’t you spend the night? Or you can stay here forever, if you want.”
I looked up at Mom and Dad. They were both grinning, and I could feel my heart thumping madly in my chest. I wanted to jump and shout and squeeze them both around their necks. “You mean it?” I gasped. “Even though I ran away, you’ll still let me stay?”
“Sure we mean it,” Mom answered, hugging me again.
“And I’ll take a bath,” I promised. “And I’ll do my chores.”
I never thought a bath could feel so good. And before I climbed into bed, I cleaned and straightened my room. Sarah and Annie came to see me, and I didn’t even tease them.
Mom and Dad came in and tucked me in between the clean-smelling sheets and kissed me. When they were gone, I slipped out of bed and knelt down and said a little prayer. I didn’t ask for anything. Not one thing. But I did a lot of thanking because I had a mom and dad who loved me enough to let me come home, the best place in the world!

I was baptized when I was ten years old, but in my early teenage years, I became inactive in the Church. I had many problems and I didn’t think there were any solutions. But, because my mother was the Church magazine representative, we always had many copies of the Church magazine at home, and I never stopped reading the Liahona (Spanish).
Articles like President Spencer W. Kimball’s “Absolute Truth” and Elder Boyd K. Packer’s “Candle of the Lord” helped me decide to return to the Church and change my life to be more like Christ.
I am now serving a mission in my homeland of Mexico and my friend is preparing for a mission. None of this would have happened if I had not continued to read the Liahona while I was not active in the Church. I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for the Church’s publications.

These early seeds of faith sprouted still further when, as a young Aaronic Priesthood boy, I received a firsthand confirmation of the remarkable testimony of the Three Witnesses concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. My stake president was President Henry D. Moyle, and his father was James H. Moyle. In the summertime Brother James H. Moyle would visit his family, and he would worship with us in our little ward in the southeast of the Salt Lake Valley.

One Sunday, Brother James H. Moyle shared with us a singular experience. As a young man he went to the University of Michigan to study law. As he was finishing his studies, his father told him that David Whitmer, one of the witnesses of the Book of Mormon, was still alive. The father suggested to his son that he stop on his way back to Salt Lake City to visit with David Whitmer face-to-face. Brother Moyle’s purpose was to ask him about his testimony concerning the golden plates and the Book of Mormon.

During that visit, Brother Moyle said to David Whitmer: “Sir, you are an old man, and I’m a young man. I have been studying about witnesses and testimonies. Please tell me the truth concerning your testimony as one of the witnesses of the Book of Mormon.” David Whitmer then told this young man: “Yes, I held the golden plates in my hands, and they were shown to us by an angel. My testimony concerning the Book of Mormon is true.” David Whitmer was out of the Church, but he never denied his testimony of the angel’s visitation, of handling the golden plates, or of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Hearing with my own ears this remarkable experience directly from Brother Moyle’s lips had a powerful, confirming effect upon my growing testimony. Having heard it, I felt it was binding upon me.

The first book I ever owned came to me on the heels of near tragedy. It was at a community Christmas tree party in our little country town of Clifton in Idaho. The huge tree lighted with hundreds of burning candles … set an ideal stage for that which followed. Before our horrified gaze Santa caught fire and as he ran frantically out through a rear exit he swept along with him trimmings, candles, presents, and even a part of the tree itself. …
I returned home … disconsolate and dejected because no gift was on the tree for me. The next day from out of the ruins of the fire a book, half burned, was found with my name in it. That book was Tom, the Bootblack, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

It was at the time my father was in the last stages of stomach cancer, his body wasting away to less than 100 pounds, his spirit growing in strength every single day, that he shared with me his new insights from that perspective.
It is a fact, he bore witness, that the body and the spirit are separate. When this process of separation is witnessed firsthand, he said with conviction and enthusiasm, the meaning of eternal life and the resurrection take on a new dimension of understanding. It is like discovering a precious gift you’ve held in your possession all this time but never unwrapped; and the time comes when you open it, and you’re more ready to fully appreciate the divine nature of the gift because you are prepared to use it for the purpose it was intended.

President Benson’s own expressions indicate this love for temples. He reflected:
“I remember so well, as a little boy, coming in from the field and approaching the old farm house. … I could hear my mother singing, ‘Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?’ … I can still see her in my mind’s eye bending over the ironing board … with beads of perspiration on her forehead.” She was ironing long strips of white cloth, with newspapers on the floor to keep them clean. “When I asked her what she was doing, she said, ‘These are temple robes, my son. Your father and I are going to the temple at Logan.’
“Then she put the old flatiron on the stove, drew a chair close to mine, and told me about temple work—how important it is to be able to go to the temple and participate in the sacred ordinances performed there. She also expressed her fervent hope that some day her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren would have the opportunity to enjoy those priceless blessings.” He continued, “I am happy to say that her fondest hopes in large measure have been realized.”

When I began preparing this talk, I did all the things I knew I should do: I went to the temple, I fasted, I read the scriptures, I prayed. And I wrote a talk. But, sisters, when you choose to write about charity, you need to feel charitable. And I didn’t. And so, after many prayers and tears, there came a realization to my mind that I had to ask forgiveness of those who, unbeknownst to them, were the cause of my uncharitable thoughts. It was hard. But it was healing. And I testify to you that the Lord’s Spirit returned.