Gospel Story Finder

As a family we soon learned to live with the unexpected when an act of charity was involved. We had moved to California several years ago, and while we were preparing our finances to buy a home, we rented one which furnished us with appliances we needed. We had to store ours in our garage waiting for the purchase of a home. One evening in sacrament meeting she heard an earnest appeal from the bishop of our ward to assist those who had lost so much in a devastating flood a few miles from where we lived. As I drove home from work a few nights later, I saw a trailer in my driveway. There was a man tying my appliances on his trailer. I rushed into the house to see what was going on. And I was greeted with the words, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? After sacrament meeting last week, I informed the bishop if anyone needed our appliances for flood relief, they could have them.”

Our visitors were Brother Karl G. Maeser, who organized Brigham Young University under the direction of President Brigham Young, and Brother George Goddard, who had a beautiful singing voice. I can remember to this day the songs Brother Goddard had us practice in that conference.
The first one is no longer in the hymn-book, but it goes like this: “Take away the whiskey, the coffee, and the tea. Cold water is the drink for me.” This song made such an impression upon me as a boy that I can hardly drink anything but cold water even today.
I was on the train traveling between Salt Lake City and Los Angeles one time when a waiter asked, “Are you ready for your coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I answered.
“Will you have tea?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I repeated.
“Would you like some Postum?”
“No, thank you.”
He was becoming irritated now. “What do you want to drink?”
“Cold water, please,” I requested.
His reply was, “Well, you’re the funniest man I ever did see.”

I’ll never forget the day I met Diego. I was serving my mission in Chile when he approached my companion and me. He was so excited to see us because he wanted to learn about the gospel and knew he needed to be baptized. Diego amazed me because he was so pure—he didn’t want to do one worldly thing. He introduced us to his mother, and we set up an appointment to teach them at his grandmother’s house.
No sooner had we arrived to teach them than Diego’s grandmother came into the room in a panic. “The goats are missing!” she cried.
“Can you help me search for them?” Diego asked my companion and me, so we did.
The area was covered in rolling hills, which were rockier than I had thought. Diego explained that he was worried because the goats could hurt themselves on the treacherous terrain or be stolen by thieves. We had searched for a while when Diego finally yelled, “I see them!”
I turned my head and could not see anything. I asked, “Diego, where are they?”
He replied, “They are on top of that hill.”
As I tried to focus my eyes, I could see dots moving around on the hilltop. I couldn’t believe Diego had spotted the flock of goats from that far away. He told us to wait at the bottom while he went up to get them.
I then witnessed something I had never seen before. As Diego climbed the steep hill, he began a distinct combination of clapping and yelling. The goats, recognizing the signal, perked up. Within five minutes, they grouped together and came galloping down the hill.
“This is too easy!” I thought.
I was right. As we turned to herd the flock back home, I heard the distant cry of another goat. We looked back and saw one little goat bleating on top of the hill. Realizing it was alone, it started trotting toward us. I was feeling relieved to see that this goat was coming toward us when Diego began to race up the hill.
“What are you doing?” I called.
“It’s a baby goat,” he replied. “It could easily fall and get injured.”
My companion and I quickly followed him.
As Diego bent to pick up the baby goat, it dodged and ran away. For a long time the three of us tried to catch the goat, but it refused to come. I was getting frustrated. Couldn’t the goat see that we were trying to help?
At last Diego’s herding dog, Bo Bo, came out of nowhere and pinned the goat to the ground. Diego picked up the goat, unharmed, and handed it to me. He asked me to carry it home while he attended to the rest of the flock.
As I lifted the little goat onto my shoulders, I felt its heart racing. I realized how frightened it must have been. Exhausted, the goat now laid limp, its head dangling over my shoulder and resting on my arm. It was as if the goat knew we were taking it home, because it did not fight anymore.
When I placed the baby goat back in the pen, safe with its family, it seemed happy and relieved. My heart filled with gladness. I was so grateful I’d played a part in rescuing it.
In that moment, a scripture came to life in my mind: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. …
“… Likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth” (Luke 15:4–5, 7).
Diego taught me something about the Savior that day. Diego loved each member of his flock individually. He could see the dangers they faced and wanted to save each one. How much more the Savior loves each of us.
The little goat taught me a lot too. How often had I run away from the Savior’s help? How many lost souls were shutting Him out of their lives because they were afraid?
As a missionary, I was privileged to serve others the way the Savior would if He were here. At first I had agreed to help Diego because I cared about him, but as I carried that goat, I came to feel I cared for it too. How much more I loved the Savior and wanted to seek for His children. As I did, love grew in my heart for the Chilean people. I could not always carry them safely on my shoulders, but I could teach them and the Holy Ghost could guide them to the One who can. I know I’ll feel joy seeing them safely at home with their eternal families someday.

Courage is one of Joseph Smith’s special qualities. Without it, he would have shrunk from carrying out his remarkable role. At about age seven, he had a gravely infected leg. Amputation seemed inevitable. He refused alcoholic anesthetics when his leg bones were surgically and painfully treated in a new technique. By the way, that thoughtful little boy asked his mother to leave the room so she wouldn’t have to witness his suffering.
For Joseph’s ailment, the best medical help available in America was surprisingly just a few miles away: Dr. Nathan Smith, founder of Dartmouth’s medical school and the experienced pioneer of this advanced technique (see Le Roy S. Wirthlin, “Joseph Smith’s Boyhood Operation: An 1813 Surgical Success,” Brigham Young University Studies, spring 1981, pp. 131–54; see also “Joseph Smith’s Surgeon,” Ensign, Mar. 1978, pp. 59–60). He led the team who saved Joseph’s leg, including for the grueling march of Zion’s Camp.

Although my husband and I came from families with religious and moral principles, we were not satisfied with the way our own family of five was progressing spiritually. I attended the same church we had been reared in, accompanied by our three children—Beverly, Janice, and Ralph. My husband, Raúl, didn’t go to church because he thought that all churches were businesses. He thought they were highly commercialized and that many of the leaders profited from the members’ donations. He also believed religious literature should not be purchased but should be given to people who are interested in it.
In February 1986 my husband chanced to see two Latter-day Saint missionaries walk by our house, and he called them over. His intent was to ask them if the church they represented was interested in buying a lot to build a meetinghouse on. My husband is in the real estate business, so he saw this meeting as a sales opportunity.
The missionaries were not able to give him any information on that matter, but they didn’t miss this chance to ask him if they could set up an appointment for a discussion about the restored gospel. My husband was certain this was just another church like all the others he had come in contact with before, so he asked them to come back the next day. He intended to show them that their church just used God to do business.
We received the missionaries the next day with a bit of suspicion. But as they proceeded to talk to us about the Church and its history, we began to feel something very special in our hearts. When they left they gave us copies of the Book of Mormon, and my husband asked how much he owed for them. To his surprise, the books were free. His surprise was even greater when he realized that this Church was not a business. He became interested and started asking the missionaries all kind of questions.
We went to church every Sunday after that, and by 15 July 1987 our whole family had become converted. We were baptized and later were sealed for eternity as a family in the temple. Our son, Ralph, served as a full-time missionary and later married in the temple. Our two daughters have married returned missionaries in the temple, and we now have nine beautiful and healthy grandchildren.
My husband and I have served in many callings in the Church and have continued to grow spiritually and to help the gospel grow in our branch, located in the southern part of our beautiful isle of enchantment, Puerto Rico. My husband has presided over the Salinas Branch twice. The work has been hard, but we know that our example as a branch has left many seeds scattered over our little town.
What more could we ask of our Heavenly Father? Our gratitude is eternal. What started as a simple sales conversation and an effort to prove the Church was a business came to be the greatest possible celestial transaction for our family—the opportunity to be united with each other, with our Savior Jesus Christ, and with our Heavenly Father.

One night, Harold B. Lee became dangerously ill with pneumonia.
Harold: Mother, I can hardly breathe.
Mother: I’ll be right back. You’re going to be OK.
Harold’s mother sliced juicy onions into a flour sack, put the wet sack on his chest, and prayed for a miracle.
The next morning he could breathe again. Soon he recovered completely.
Harold: You always know what to do. You saved my life!
Mother: The Lord saved your life. He just expected me to do everything I could to help.

We have lived in Park City, Utah, for over 20 years. Park City was the site of the 2002 Winter Olympics and is home to three world-class ski resorts. It’s a big time ski town. My favorite area is Deer Valley. On a powder day I know where to go to find first tracks in untouched snow. But when we were new to town I had to learn my way around the mountain.
I remember the first time I skied one particular run called The Ruins of Pompeii. It’s a double black diamond. It starts off steep and then in the middle it has an even steeper section. My first time down I wasn’t sure what was ahead so I was skiing carefully. When I came to the steep section I stopped to catch my breath and look down the slope to pick out my line. While I was standing there looking over the run, I heard another skier approaching. He was obviously a good skier and was skiing fast. When he came to the steep section he let out a whoop, caught a little air and went over the edge. I watched him do some nice turns and then ski out of sight. I was impressed.
I pushed off and carefully navigated the steep section with five or six turns. Then I stopped again and looked back up the slope. I was surprised at how much easier it looked from the bottom, especially now that I had completed it. Pleased with myself I completed the run and jumped on the lift.
Returning to the Ruins of Pompeii again I skied the upper section feeling pretty good. When the steep section came in sight I noticed a skier stopped where I had been, peering over the edge. So what do you think I did? Exactly. I picked up a little speed, let out a whoop, caught a very little air, and skied right over the edge. I laid down my turns and continued out of sight.
What was the difference between the two runs for me? Confidence. The first experience gave me confidence to do much better the second time down. And that’s what I want to talk about today. Confidence.

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

In 1975 my wife, Sabine, and I were a young married couple with a 16-month-old son. We lived in Celle, which was then part of the Germany Hamburg Mission.
The missionaries probably never would have found our home, which was hidden behind a gas station and an automobile repair shop. But they did find me—sitting on a bench at the train station one sunny June day. I was probably smoking a cigarette.
The two young Americans introduced themselves as representatives of a church. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it must have been interesting because I agreed to let them call at our home the following day.
They arrived on time and began discussing principles that most people believe. Both Sabine and I had a good feeling about them and enjoyed the conversation. But then the subject turned to God. I told them I did not believe in either God or Jesus Christ. The missionaries seemed somewhat dismayed and left us a pamphlet describing a visit by Jesus Christ to the Americas.
We didn’t make another appointment, but we read the pamphlet attentively and had the impression these Americans were crazy. Christ in America! Who ever heard of such a thing?
One Sunday in September we found ourselves near the home of some friends we hadn’t seen for several months. We decided to drop in. They were just getting ready to go to their new church, which they were very enthused about. Quite spontaneously, we decided to go with them. We too found the atmosphere of the branch enchanting, and everything we heard there was interesting and believable. We were eager to return the following Sunday.
Soon we were learning all about the Church from the full-time missionaries and from member missionaries. Brother Horst Klappert taught a class for investigators. Horst and his wife, Rotraud, had a lot in common with us. We became good friends, and soon we were being invited everywhere by Church members. We enjoyed many wonderful evenings that were different from anything we were used to.
One of the full-time missionaries was an elder named Max Fisher. When we got to the third or fourth discussion, Elder Fisher asked me—me, Jochen Beisert, someone who did not believe in God—to offer a prayer. At that moment I suddenly remembered something that had happened to me more than 10 years before.
Over the years my hectic lifestyle, combined with the trials of life, had caused me to forget this experience. But now when I started to pray, it came back to me, and I had a tender talk with my Father in Heaven. All those present—our recently converted friends and the missionaries—felt the Spirit and were close to tears. A few weeks later, on 18 October 1975, I was baptized by Elder Fisher. Sabine was baptized by one of our member missionaries.

Tom was eight and I was six when we saw our first rodeo. We drove to Saskatoon in our Ford truck and fought to sit next to Dad. It was a great journey for Tom and me, like a trip to Alaska—almost.
I don’t remember much of the day, except the ride and the barrel man (a barrel man dresses like a clown and distracts the bulls when the cowboys fall off).
Well, a bull had thrown some cowboy and the barrel man was twisting and dancing, pulling the big bull away from the guy on the ground. Then the bull turned fast, unexpected. The barrel man twisted again, sprinted, then dove into a barrel headfirst just as the bull knocked it across the arena floor.
I could feel the ground shake, even in the stands. There was silence. And then the clown stuck his head out of the barrel and blew the bull a raspberry. We laughed about that all the way home.
The next day the rodeo came to our backyard. “The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” game was Tom’s idea; and Leonard, our German shepherd, was as good a bull as we could have hoped for. Whoever played the bull rider would lie helpless on the ground as Leonard tried to bite his ears. Meanwhile, the barrel man hopped back and forth trying to distract the “bull.”
Finally, Leonard would take off after the barrel man and the two would race around our old, plastic garbage can until the “bull” got too close. Then the barrel man could dive in.
Tom and I took turns. Leonard could catch me, but not Tom. He was too quick. He was a great barrel man.
Tom even dressed for the part. He would paint his face and wear cutoff jeans and an ugly Hawaiian shirt with big red ferns plastered all over it. He looked like a real barrel man.
The years passed. Tom turned 14, and I was almost 12. Over those years my brother never lost his love of the game. We would play “Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” all summer, along with the rest of our summertime activities. Some nights we’d play well past dark, when the yellow glow of the porch light made us all look bigger than we really were.
“Getting late,” Tom said one summer evening, a Saturday. Leonard was asleep at our feet and dusk was approaching quickly. Behind us our shadows faded all the way to the house.
“You’re getting slower,” I said. “I mean, he almost got you that time.”
“Ahhhh,” Tom said, smiling. “I saved your life at least a dozen times today.” The red mud we have in Saskatchewan caked Tom’s face. It looked like barn paint had spilled and dried on him and his clown clothes.
“Church tomorrow,” I said. Tom nodded.
We looked out onto the prairie and didn’t say anything for a while. The wheat fields stretched unbroken to the start of the dark blue sky and I daydreamed. I thought about the prairie, how it could have been a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.
“One day I’m gonna be in the rodeo,” said Tom. “Be a real barrel man.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
Tom shifted from one leg to the other, then back again. He started rocking. He was always moving.
“We should ride over to the creek tomorrow,” Tom said. “And fish and stuff.” It was a strange thing to say. We never did anything like that on Sunday.
“Sure,” I said, though I really wasn’t too sure.
Tom brought his hand down on the side of his jeans, making a loud slap. “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed. “Maybe we can go early and catch us a tasty catfish.”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
Then I waited for Tom to say something else, but he didn’t. I didn’t know what Tom was thinking. Mom and Dad wouldn’t like the idea of us taking off, missing church, breaking the Sabbath. I hoped he’d forget the whole thing by morning.
Tom’s voice woke me the next morning. I looked over and Mom was feeling his forehead while he moaned and made a series of pitiful faces.
“Stomachache,” he growled.
“I’ll stay home with you,” said Mom.
“No, that’s okay.” He quickly added, “I don’t want you to miss church, Mom.”
She felt Tom’s forehead again and shook her head. “No fever. I’ll get you some cereal.” She left for the kitchen and Tom leaned close to me.
“Tell her you need to stay home too,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to lie,” I said, as Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t mind going to church. We can ride over to the creek tomorrow.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Tom was getting mad. “Tell her you’ve got the same thing or, um, or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Mom came back in with Tom’s breakfast.
“You’d better get yourself something,” she said to me. I didn’t say anything. I just sat frozen in my bed, looking at my feet.
Tom spoke up. “I don’t think he feels good either.”
“Your stomach hurts too?” Mom asked. I looked at her and saw the concern on her face. I wasn’t looking at Tom, but I felt his eyes on me. I didn’t want to make Tom mad at me, but I didn’t want to lie. And though I’d never thought about it before, I didn’t really want to miss church.
“Nah, I’m okay. I think I can go.”
Tom wouldn’t talk to me when we left, but as I walked by our room he mouthed the word “Baby.”
Tom didn’t say anything to me for three days. He left early in the morning and stayed at a friend’s house until dark. At supper, he wouldn’t look up from his food or talk to anyone. I’d never seen Tom that quiet. Usually he was a comic, full of life and words.
After breakfast and chores Thursday I climbed into our private den above the barn. Earlier that summer Tom and I had painted the walls with some leftover yellow paint and made our own furniture out of the paint cans and some broken fence boards. In the rafters there were a dozen sparrow nests. Dad said we could clean out the nests, but we left them alone. It was their room first. And they were part of what made it a great room.
Outside the wind was blowing across the endless brown prairie. It was whining through the cracks in the walls, stirring dust bowls on the floor. I was alone, and I felt that loneliness swelling in me. I choked on a sob and shook my head.
“No blubbering,” I whispered, and picked up our half-finished U.S.S. Lexington model from the table. Tom and I hadn’t gotten around to putting in the bridge yet.
“That’s mine,” said Tom. I spun around. Tom stood in the doorway.
“It’s mine too,” I said.
Tom slumped down on one of our paint-can chairs. “Ah, you can have it.”
I put the model down and looked up at the sparrows. “Ain’t you going out today?” I asked. Tom didn’t answer. “We could go to the creek if you want.”
“Nah,” he said.
I looked at him. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Ever since Sunday you act like I gave you a wormy apple.”
Tom couldn’t help smiling; it was, after all, one of his funny lines. “Weirdo,” he said. Then he put his mean face back on. “Why’d you weasel out of skipping church?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel good about it.”
“Nobody has a right to plan something then weasel out,” Tom said.
“Yeah, I guess I did do that. I should’ve told you before that I didn’t want to skip church.”
Tom nodded. “I don’t know. I guess I understand. I mean, I sort of missed it. Priesthood and even Sunday School. I probably shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for going.”
Leonard started barking in the driveway and I looked out. “The bull wants to play,” I said.
“The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man,” Tom said. “That’s what church is like.”
“Huh?”
“Going to church. It’s like when I play Barrel Man. I have the barrel to jump into if the bull is gonna get me. I know it’s dumb, but going to church is kind of like that. Every week you go to church, you get protection. You do something you know is right, and then you feel good. If you don’t do it, you feel bad and take it out on everyone else. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so. If you don’t jump into the barrel you get mad at your brother.”
Tom laughed. “Right.” He got up and started to pace back and forth in front of me. “Sorry I’ve been a jerk to you,” he said.
“Forget it. You getting happier yet?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m feeling better now.”
He made a few more turns up and down the den floor, pacing faster and faster each time. Finally he said, “You look like you could use a bull ride, Shorty.” And then he grabbed me in a head lock and we spun around. The old Tom was back. He pushed me aside and bounded down the steps three at a time. I could hear his “Ha, ha, ha” from the yard, and I ran to the window. He was in the driveway, flipping Leonard’s ears. Then they took off, chasing in a complete circle around the barn.
They made a pass below me, still running hard. Leonard was barking, and Tom was laughing his usual, annoying laugh. “Ha, ha, ha, let’s go, bull rider!”
Beyond the noise and excitement below, beyond the driveway and the fence line, I looked to the wheat fields that seemed to stretch forever. I thought about the prairie, and how it could be a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.

Some time ago, a young man came to my office requesting a blessing. He was about eighteen years of age and had some problems. There were no serious moral problems, but he was mixed up in his thinking and worried. He requested a blessing.
I said to him, “Have you ever asked your father to give you a blessing? Your father is a member of the Church, I assume?”
He said, “Yes, he is an elder, a rather inactive elder.”
When I asked, “Do you love your father?” he replied, “Yes, Brother Benson, he is a good man. I love him.” He then said, “He doesn’t attend to his priesthood duties as he should. He doesn’t go to church regularly, I don’t know that he is a tithe payer, but he is a good man, a good provider, a kind man.”
I said, “How would you like to talk to him at an opportune time and ask him if he would be willing to give you a father’s blessing?”
“Oh,” he said, “I think that would frighten him.”
I then said, “Are you willing to try it? I will be praying for you.”
He said, “All right; on that basis, I will.”
A few days later he came back. He said, “Brother Benson, that’s the sweetest thing that has happened in our family.” He could hardly control his feelings as he told me what had happened. He said, “When the opportunity was right, I mentioned it to Father, and he replied, ‘Son, do you really want me to give you a blessing?’ I told him, ‘Yes, Dad, I would like you to.’” Then he said, “Brother Benson, he gave me one of the most beautiful blessings you could ever ask for. Mother sat there crying all during the blessing. When he got through there was a bond of appreciation and gratitude and love between us that we have never had in our home.”

“I can tell you something that happened to me the summer after I was baptized. Is that close enough?”
When Malcolm nodded, Mom went on, “I call this story ‘One Day in the Water.’ This is how it happened:
“Shortly after we moved to the farm, my Uncle Virgil and his daughter Cindy came to see us. She was a year older than I.
“‘How would you girls like to go swimming with Cindy at the town swimming pool for a couple of hours while I do some business?’” he asked my sister, Pam, and me. ‘Afterward you could come home with us and spend the night?’
“Your Aunt Pam and I raced to pack our suitcases with pajamas, clean clothes, and toothbrushes. Then we quickly changed into our swimming suits, grabbed our towels, kissed our parents good-bye, and headed into town.
“I had never gone swimming without your grandpa and grandma being right in the pool with me, but Pam assured me that the lifeguard would keep an eye on us and help us if we had any problems.
“The lifeguard didn’t look nearly as strong as your grandpa, but Pam didn’t seem the least bit worried, so I jumped into the water after her and Cindy and joined in the splashing and races across the shallow end. I was having a wonderful time until Cindy challenged Pam to swim around the entire edge of the pool with her. I had swum in the deep end before when your grandpa was there, but I wasn’t too confident on my own. Still, I didn’t want to be left out, so I started to swim behind them. When we went under the rope, I lost my nerve and decided to circle the deep end by hanging onto the edge.
“Five older boys were taking turns doing stunts off the low diving board. One of them spotted me clinging to the edge, and he started to tease me. ‘This is the deep end, little girl,’ he said. ‘No babies allowed.’
“‘I’m not a baby,’ I retorted, embarrassed that he had noticed me.
“‘Yeah, then why are you hanging onto the edge?’ he jeered. Soon his four friends joined him in the pool, and one of them started to splash water in my face. I turned my head away and looked for the lifeguard. But the lifeguard chair was empty, and there was no one standing around the edge of the pool with a whistle.
“‘Leave me alone,’ I told the boys. ‘I’m just resting.’ I felt tears welling up in my eyes, so I bit my lip hard, trying to control them. If they already think that I’m a baby, I thought, what will they do if I start crying?
“‘Well, you’ve rested long enough,’ the first boy snapped. ‘Now swim.’
“Pam and Cindy, unaware of my plight, had finished their trip around the pool and were sunbathing at the other end.
“‘What are you waiting for?’ the boy who had splashed me demanded. ‘You heard Bruce—swim!’
“I turned to swim close to the edge of the pool, and when the boys realized what I was going to do, three of them lined up in front of me and two got behind me so that I would have to swim across the deep end. I took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as I could. When I reached the middle, I turned to look back. By then the boys had completely forgotten me and were back on the diving board trying to outdo each other.
“I probably would have made it to the other side just fine except that I became frightened without someone watching over me. I panicked and went under. I sank clear to the bottom. I let my knees bend, then pushed off as hard as I could. The weight of the water pulled against me like a giant magnet. My head broke through the surface of the water just below my eyes, but I couldn’t get my nose above it to take a breath. I sank back to the bottom. Once more I pushed up with all the strength of my legs. Once more I was two inches too short. My lungs were really aching as I sank that time. My heart was pouring out silent pleadings to the Lord: ‘I’m drowning Heavenly Father! Help me! I can’t get my nose out of the water.’
“I remembered being told that if someone went underwater three times without being able to get a breath, he would drown. Again I pushed off. Again I failed. As I sank the third time, my mind cleared of all my fears, and I thought, This is what it is like to die. All I have to do now is take a deep breath. My lungs will fill with water, and I will drown. I wonder if my lungs will stop hurting when the water fills them? As I touched the bottom, a thought came to me as clearly as if it had been spoken: ‘Turn around. You will not drown.’
“I did turn around. I found myself at the side of the pool directly under the ladder. How I had gotten there I do not know. But I do know that it was not under my own power. I pushed up one last time, grabbed the ladder, and pulled myself up far enough to breathe. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. The warmth of the sun, the song of a nearby bird, the smell of the water—everything was a gift to be cherished.
“When I got my strength back and rejoined Pam and Cindy, I decided not to tell them about my experience. Somehow it was too sacred to talk about. I didn’t even tell your grandma for many years.
“When I ate supper that night, I concentrated on really tasting everything. After Pam and Cindy were asleep, I got out of bed and walked quietly around Uncle Virgil’s house, touching everything. I wanted to store in my mind the look, feel, and smell of everything. I savored my senses as though they were brand new. I wanted to really understand what it was like to be alive. That feeling stayed with me strongly for several days, then gradually faded away. But sometimes, when I’m all alone, it comes back to me for a short time.”

As a member of the Buckhorn High School marching band in Huntsville, Alabama, for more than three years, 17-year-old Jennifer Hunt (center, with other members of the band) has had plenty of opportunities to share her music. Since she is also the only member of the Church in her band, she has also had plenty of opportunities to share her testimony.
Starting with her freshman year in high school, when she would carry her seminary manual with her from early-morning seminary to school, friends from the band have been full of questions about the gospel. Later, during a band tour of Washington, D.C., Jennifer got to explain about temple worship and the importance Latter-day Saints place on it.
Although there aren’t many LDS students in Jennifer’s school, she realizes that, “because of the Church, I have friends all over the world who are as busy as I am and are still getting to all their meetings and trying to do all of the things they should. That helps me do it.”

That is a question that a lot of us would like to know the answer to. Scientists also are searching for the answer to such a strange phenomenon. To find out what they are learning, two of my sons and I took a trip to Scripps Institution of Oceanography last March. While visiting the aquarium there, we picked up a pamphlet that listed the times of high and low tides for the area around San Diego. Sandwiched in the center of the booklet was an article called “The Grunion Story.” It described the strange habits of a small silvery fish called the grunion that beaches itself upon the sand in very large numbers about twice each month at certain times of the year. These “runs,” as they are called, can be predicted fairly accurately from a knowledge of the tides. The booklet indicated that a grunion run was expected to begin about one o’clock the following morning. Well, you can probably guess what happened when my boys read that!

In the dead of night, Keith’s wristwatch alarm rang to wake us up. We got dressed and headed outside, where we were greeted by a fog so thick that we could only see a few feet in front of us. Undaunted, we climbed into our car and inched our way down the winding street to the ocean’s edge.

Except for us and a couple of sleepy-looking birds, the beach was deserted. Where is everyone? we wondered. We watched wave after wave roll in and break upon the sand and then recede, but no grunion appeared. I stood watch on a rock a little farther out, where a large wave broke over my feet and filled my shoes with water. But still no grunion. After an hour of fruitless waiting, we gave up and wended our way through the heavy fog back to the motel, where we lapsed into sleep.

Suddenly Keith’s alarm rang again, and we saw that it was light outside. It was almost time for the aquarium to open, so we hustled off without eating breakfast. When we got there, however, the aquarium was still closed. Puzzled, we peered through the glass door to see a large clock on the wall with its big hand on six and its little hand between seven and eight. Keith’s watch also had its big hand on six, but its little hand was between eight and nine. Then we realized the reason for the absence of people and grunion at the beach that night. Keith’s watch was an hour fast. We had arrived an hour early and left just before the grunion run was supposed to start!

During filming, my brother Byron lay in a hospital bed in California, USA, while my newborn granddaughter lay in a hospital bed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Byron was dying of cancer, and my granddaughter, born with a serious birth defect, was not expected to live.
I had to miss the reunion because my daughter Angie needed my help and support. On June 3, her first child, Athena, was born with a diaphragmatic hernia. Surgeons operated on her three days later. They did not expect her to survive.
Fortunately, my husband and I were nearby during this trying time. Each afternoon after I finished my Book of Mormon video work, Angie would leave her vigil at the hospital and join us at our motel, where we comforted her and prayed for Athena.
That night, I learned that God had taken Byron home. I’m grateful for the faith I have that I will see him and my parents again. I’m also grateful that God heard our prayers for Athena. After she spent 88 days recuperating in the neonatal intensive care unit, we finally brought her home.

One of my most joyous memories began during the summer of 1981. We had walked the city streets all morning talking to businessmen about the Church. By noon we were hot and tired and ready to take a break. We decided to walk through a nearby park, and as we did so, we could see off to the side a group of young people. We decided to see if they would listen to our message.
As we approached, they looked at us with some suspicion. We told them we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They laughed a little and made a few mocking comments. It seemed obvious that they didn’t want to listen to us. But there was one young man in the group who looked at us with a sincere interest. So we focused our attention on him. He had a guitar. We asked, “Would you play something for us?” He smiled, lifted his guitar, and began to play.
When he finished, we told him more about ourselves and our message. He told us his name was Jose Manuel. We talked for a few more minutes and then ended the conversation by asking if we could talk to him another day about our church. He replied he would be glad to listen to us and that we could find him in the park most every day taking his dog for a walk or playing his guitar.
As we left, we couldn’t imagine this young man ever being baptized. A few days later we were in that same area. To our pleasant surprise, there he was. We asked if he would listen to us. He consented, and we pulled two park benches together, and my companion and I sat on one and he sat on the other. We looked into Jose Manuel’s eyes and told him about Jesus Christ. Near the end of our message we told him about the Book of Mormon and that Jesus Christ had visited America after his resurrection. We challenged him to read about this great event. He said he would. We left the book, yet we had our doubts if Jose Manuel would ever even open it.
A few more days went by, and we decided to see how he had done on his reading assignment. To our surprise, he told us that he had read the part in the Book of Mormon that we had assigned him. He explained that he had told his friend about what he had read. His friend also wanted to read the book, so Jose Manuel had given it to him. He asked us if he could possibly get another copy. We told him that we could probably work something out.
After that we continued to teach him the gospel. We saw him change his appearance and his heart. He wanted to be baptized.
Nearly three years have passed since we first met Jose Manuel in that park in Madrid, Spain. He is now a member of the Church. A few months ago he, like you and me, had a decision to make. He had to decide whether or not to serve a mission. Jose Manuel had every reason in the world not to go. He was just a recent convert. His knowledge of the gospel wasn’t that extensive. He had lost his father a few years before, and his mother didn’t want him to go. Other family members didn’t want him to go either. He didn’t have the finances to be able to serve for eighteen months. He also had to complete his military service before he would be able to even think about serving a mission. Everything was against his going on a mission.
Every one of us, as we think about a mission, can find a number of reasons why we shouldn’t go. We must each look beyond those reasons. The key is to look for reasons to go. And Jose Manuel had some reasons to go. He knew that Jesus Christ was the son of God and the Savior of the world. He knew that Joseph Smith had seen a vision. He knew that the Church was true. He knew that it had changed his life, and he wanted to go out and share that knowledge with others.
Jose Manuel had a desire to serve. He was called to the work. With the help of the Lord, he was able to work things out. That always seems to happen. He overcame the obstacles, and he’s now serving in the Spain Barcelona mission.

Howard R. Driggs tells of an incident in the life of the poet Longfellow that illustrates the concept I would like to stress:
“It happened that, while the poet, at over eighty years of age, was still teaching at Harvard, one of his appreciative students asked him, ‘How do you keep so perennially young, Professor Longfellow? We never get tired of your classes. You always have something new and interesting to give.’
“‘I’ve never had that question put to me before,’ returned the poet. Then, looking out of the window, he said, ‘Do you see those two apple trees in the yard?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Do you observe any difference between the blossoms on the older tree and those on the younger one?’
“‘No,’ replied the student, ‘they look just alike to me.’
“‘How do you account for the fact that the old apple tree flowers out as beautifully as does the young one?’ persisted the teacher.
“‘I can’t explain it.’
“‘Let me tell you the secret. That old tree managed last year to grow enough wood to put forth its new blossoms. Blossoms, you know, always come on the new wood.’
“‘Oh, I see,’ said the young man, ‘to keep young one must keep growing.’
“‘Yes,’ came the quiet response” (in Especially for Mormons, comp. Stan and Sharon Miller, Provo, Utah: Kellirae Arts, 1978, 4:2–3).

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

Several years ago my husband and I were dumping a load at the local landfill when I noticed one of the ladies who worked there picking up a box to put into the incinerator. Suddenly the box broke open, and some photographs fell out.
As I watched, I had a strong impression to go and get that box of pictures. I jumped out of the car to help pick up the pictures. The lady and I both felt that the photographs had been thrown out by mistake, and I convinced her to let me take the pictures to try to find someone who would like to have them.
Sifting through the hundreds of photographs in the box, I found an envelope addressed to someone in Warburg, Alberta, Canada. Over the next several years, I wrote a few letters to people with the same last name, but I never got a reply.
After my family got access to the Internet, I discovered that there was a historical society in Warburg. I asked if anyone who worked there recognized the names I had found on the back of the pictures.
One month later we received a call from a man who had been contacted by the historical society. He said his sister lived close to us, and he asked if she could see the pictures. Of course we said yes.
The next day, Floyd and Beth Hawthorn, both Latter-day Saints, came to see the pictures. When I opened the box, Brother Hawthorn said, “Well, there he is,” pointing to the picture on top. It was a picture of Sister Hawthorn’s grandfather.
As they picked up picture after picture, Brother and Sister Hawthorn told us stories about the people in each photograph. The Hawthorns doubted that they were related to the person who had discarded the pictures, and they had no idea why the photographs had ended up at the landfill.
I feel strongly that Heavenly Father helped me return the photographs to the Hawthorn family. I testify that family history work is one of the most important works to be done. If we are willing to do the work, the Lord will help us do it.

Once at a zone missionary conference in Philadelphia, I discussed the importance of expressing love. Later that day a missionary told me, “President, I have never told my father that I love him.”
I said, “Elder, pick up that telephone and call your father and let him know you love him.” Ordinarily we don’t encourage missionaries to call home, but I felt inspired that this young man should.
He said, “I can’t. My father works in a steel mill out on the slag pile, and he can’t be reached during the day. But I will call him tonight, I promise.”
I responded by saying, “Elder, after you call your father, please call me at the mission home. I would like to know what he said.”
Late that night the telephone rang. It was my missionary. He said, “President, I did it.”
I replied, “Tell me about it, elder.”
And this is what he said: “Mother picked up the phone. She was worried that something had happened. I assured her that all was well and that I wanted to speak to Dad. She handed the telephone to my father. He was still groggy because he had been asleep for a while, and he said, ‘What is it, son?’
“I said, ‘Dad, I love you.’ He started to cry and handed the telephone back to mother.
“She said, ‘What did you tell your father?’
“‘Mom, I told dad that I love him, and I want you to know how much I love and appreciate you.’”
Well, that missionary had many good days in the mission field, delightful times, but the greatest day of all, I suspect, was the day that he expressed love to his parents.