Gospel Story Finder

I will be forever grateful to my mother, who taught me the importance of the temple. For years, she prepared us for the temple by having pictures of many beautiful temples hanging in our home. We also had family home evening lessons about temples. All of this was in anticipation of the long-promised visit to the temple after reaching the age of 12.
The words of the song my mother sang, often at the breakfast table before family prayers, still ring in my ears.
I love to see the temple.
I’m going there someday
To feel the Holy Spirit,
To listen and to pray.
For the temple is a house of God,
A place of love and beauty.
I’ll prepare myself while I am young;
This is my sacred duty.
(Children’s Songbook, 95)
For each of us five children, Mother’s present for our 12th birthday was a trip to the temple. The closest temple—Johannesburg—was a long trip, a 16-hour, nonstop drive, and it cost a lot of money. It meant leaving at 4:00 A.M. and arriving after 8:00 P.M.—tired, hot, and sticky.
Yet my mother always made sure money for the temple trip was first in the budget, along with tithing. Each year, we made the journey to the temple to do work for the dead. By sacrificing so much, my mother helped me understand the beauty of the temple and the importance of the work done there.
When I think of my mother, beaming proudly, as she presented her two children, my sister and me, to the temple president and showed him our recommends, I am reminded of Hannah bringing Samuel to Eli in the temple and dedicating her son to the Lord. Although I didn’t fully understand the importance of the temple at first, each successive temple trip left an indelible impression on me. My love for the temple grew each year as my mother sacrificed so much for our experiences there. To see her children in the temple, dressed in white and doing the Lord’s work, meant more to my mother than anything she could have bought with the money she saved.

“Take that!” Josh growled, jabbing the controller with his thumb and slamming a bad guy to the ground. Josh loved video games.
“Better get out of your school clothes,” Dad called. “We’re due at the priesthood preview in an hour. Your mother went to get Grandpa—they’ll meet us there.”
Josh switched off the game without the usual grumbling. “Great!”
He was clipping on his Sunday tie when Dad laid a large hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re so excited about receiving the priesthood.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Josh exclaimed. “Sister Burke says that priesthood is the power Jesus used to make the world. When I get part of that power, nobody had better mess with me!”
Dad cleared his throat. “Josh—”
“My friend Devin’s a deacon already,” Josh interrupted. “He says that I’ll have more power than the president of the United States, and he can launch missiles and order whole armies around.”
Dad sighed. “Josh, the power is the Lord’s. He’s given the priesthood to us so that we can serve others. We don’t use it to hurt people.”
“Not even bad guys?”
“Which of us is perfect?” Dad replied. “Let’s go sit at the kitchen table—I’d like you to read something in the Doctrine and Covenants.”
At the table, Dad pointed to a passage and Josh read it aloud, sounding out some of the harder words. “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love un-un—”
“Unfeigned,” Dad said. “It means genuine, not faked.”
“What good’s power if you have to be wimpy and weak to use it?”
“It doesn’t say wimpy and weak. It says gentle and meek.”
“Same thing.”
“Josh, will you come downstairs with me, please?”
Dad put the bracelet back into his wallet, and Josh followed him upstairs to the living room. Taking a picture of the Savior from the wall, Dad said, “On my last day of school, I hobbled into Brother Jones’s room and told him that I hoped to be as strong someday as he was. He smiled and handed me a graduation gift. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but here’s a better example to follow.’ I unwrapped this picture. Since then I’ve studied the life of the Savior and done my best to follow his example.”
Dad handed the picture to Josh and got his Bible. “When Jesus was arrested, one of his disciples tried to defend him with a sword. Jesus said, ‘Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?’”*
Josh whistled. “Twelve legions! That’s a lot!”
“According to the Bible Dictionary, each Roman legion had some six thousand foot soldiers plus cavalry. If angel legions are about the same size, that would be more than seventy-two thousand angels.”
“Wow!” Josh exclaimed. “They could wipe out an army!”
Dad’s voice grew very serious. “Josh, he didn’t call for those legions. He let himself be whipped and spat upon and mocked and crucified. Instead of conquering men, he conquered death itself, even for those who had hurt him.”
“Wow!” Josh said again, softly this time.
Dad reached out and touched the picture. “The best power of all is the power to help and heal. Jesus has that power, and he’s willing to share it with those who love him and follow him. I think you’re one of those.”
Josh looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to be.”
“Good!” Dad said. “So will I. And now we’d better be on our way to the priesthood preview.”

Speaking of a marriage meant to last, let me just share some tender remarks made by President Hinckley about Sister Hinckley near the end of their lives. He said:

"May I be personal for a moment? I sat at dinner across the table from my wife the other evening. It was fifty-five years ago that we were married in the Salt Lake Temple. The wondrous aura of young womanhood was upon her. She was beautiful, and I was bewitched. Now, for more than half a century, we have walked together through much of storm as well as sunshine. Today neither of us stands as tall as we once did. As I looked at her across the table, I noted a few wrinkles in her face and hands. But are they less beautiful than before? No, in fact, they are more so. Those wrinkles have a beauty of their own, and inherent in their very presence is something that speaks reassuringly of strength and integrity and a love that runs more deeply and quietly than ever before."[14]

Now this is an example of lasting love! When you marry, don’t marry for looks, wealth, or any other fading quality. Look for someone who will “wear well” as we like to say in my family. Look for a marriage that will last.

I had an experience some five years ago which was deeply moving for me and which in a quiet moment allowed me to see self-esteem, self-confidence, and love all at once. My sister and her family came to spend the night with me. After prayers we all retired. As Nanette, my three-and-a-half-year-old niece, climbed into bed with me, she said, “I didn’t kiss my mother and father good night.” So she climbed out of bed, went to their bedroom, and kissed them good night. When she returned, she cuddled up to me and said, “Aunt Ruth, Heavenly Father loves me; my mother loves me; my father loves me; you love me; Aunt Carol loves me; my Grandmother Brasher in Duncan, Oklahoma, on a mission loves me; my Grandma Mortensen loves me; my Grandpa Mortensen loves me,” and she went on to name Aunt Elaine, Uncle Wallace, cousins Margaret, Jordon, and Yvonne, and then she stopped.

I asked, “But what about Aunt Pat, Uncle Jim, Todd, and Heather?”

Before I could proceed with the list, she interrupted: “Aunt Ruth, I am not telling you everybody in the world that loves me and that I love. I am only telling you the ones that live in Provo; Duncan, Oklahoma; Emery; and Huntington.” The specific identification of individuals was significant to me. Love to her was not something abstract, something to generalize about—it was specific. Knowing that she was loved and that she loved others radiated in her self-esteem and her self-confidence.

This love created for Nanette an awareness that she matters and that others matter. She had then and continues to this day to have a sense of peace and a freedom to grow because she is secure. She knows she matters in important ways. When our lives are patterned on the principle of love, we too are secure—secure in an overriding sense even in the face of uncertainty, disappointment, and discouragement about specific aspects of our lives. Thus, we too are free to grow because we understand who we are, and we are in the bonds of love. We know that a loving Father gives us opportunities to struggle because struggle can produce growth and increase our understanding of what love is.

The Robinson children were all expected to take the scholarship examination and continue their education, but that wasn’t the route George wanted to take. In fact, the family contended that George deliberately failed the exams so that he could attend the Technical School where he wanted to go. While there, his favourite reading included novels by Robert Louis Stevenson such as Kidnapped and Black Beauty, which he would then narrate to his siblings at night before bedtime.

I can remember when I first discovered that the thoughts inside my head came to me as pictures. From a young age, I found that it was easier for me and more natural for me to express myself visually rather than practically. For example, if you asked me how I felt about a certain food, I might tell you that donuts taste like sunshine and that salads tastes like sadness. When something is yellow, my mind instinctively conjures the image of a lemon. And as a result, when discussing ideas and concepts related to that color, my thoughts often lead me to associations with citrus. What I initially thought was just a personal quirk over time revealed itself to be a gift that I came to recognize was deeply connected to my love of reading and writing. As a young woman, I would spend hours writing short stories that not only eventually helped me to learn how to express myself better but also allowed me to cultivate my love of words. Words weren’t just tools for clear communication in my native language; they were also the way to convey the emotion of my meaning because, for me, words always carried the power to paint vivid pictures. My hope was always that by using sensory or illustrative language I could help others understand the message I was trying to share.
Later in life when I embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ, I discovered that this gift opened the way for the highest and most joyful expression of my ability to communicate. I realized that my voice, my thoughts, and my feelings were expressed most authentically when I used them for two sacred purposes: first, to bear witness of my love and devotion to Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ; and second, to express my love and care to others. I have felt the Lord’s Spirit and His power in my life as I share my witness of Him and His gospel. As I seek to use my gifts with even greater purpose, I find that the Savior guides me closer to Him and helps me realize that my gift is not accidental, nor incidental.

During a visiting teaching visit, Martha, a member of our ward, told my wife and her companion never to come back again. She had decided to stop coming to church. One of the visiting teachers asked Martha if they could sing a hymn together this one last time, and she agreed. As they sang, something special happened. Little by little, the Spirit began to fill the room. Each of them felt it. Martha’s heart began to soften. With her eyes filled with tears, she expressed to her visiting teachers the feelings of her heart. At that moment, she realized that she knew that the gospel was true. She now thanked her visiting teachers and expressed a desire for them to return. From that day forward, she received them with joy.
Martha began to attend church with her young daughter. For years they attended regularly, with Martha never losing hope that her husband might eventually choose to join them. At last the day came when the Lord touched his heart, and he began to attend with them, as did their other daughter soon thereafter. This family began to feel the true joy that comes from having gospel blessings in their home. Martha has since served faithfully as our ward Relief Society president, and her husband has served well in several callings within the stake. All this began with the singing of a hymn, a small and simple thing that touched Martha’s heart.

7. We prepare for the reproof with prayer whenever possible. On one occasion I was called to counsel with a family in trouble. The father had physically punished his wife and children. Several hours before we met together. I thought about what I should tell them. I fully intended to begin my remarks to this unkind husband with some harsh words about his cruelty to his family but the night I met them, I heard myself saying, “Fred, I love you, and I love your wife and family. I’d like to help you build an eternal home.” He was no longer defensive. His wife was no longer interested in finding fault, they were anxious to make new commitments and forget an unpleasant past history. They were teachable and amenable to some very specific counsel.

Sister Ardeth Kapp related the story of an experience while she was serving with her husband as he presided over a mission in Canada. Following a Zone Conference, a few of the sister missionaries gathered around to visit with her while the president was conducting interviews. These missionaries, I’m sure thinking about this important decision they would eventually make in finding a worthy husband, commented, “Sister Kapp, your husband is so wonderful. Where did you find a man like that?” Her response was classic. She said, “Well, he wasn’t like that when I found him.” The implication is that you don’t find a perfect spouse. You pray about it, you make a choice, you marry someone who has the potential of becoming perfect and then work together throughout life to make it happen.

Jennifer sat up sleepily in her bed and pushed the flowered curtains away from the frosty window. Rubbing a small spot clear with her fist, she peeked out and saw the drifting snowflakes. “It’s finally snowing!” she declared. “Now it seems like Christmas.”
She climbed out of bed, rushed to the closet, and pulled out her velvet dress. Mother had said that just this once she could wear it to school for the Christmas party. As she tugged the beautiful dress over her head, Jennifer’s thoughts skipped ahead to school and the party. First there would be a whole morning of spelling, arithmetic, and reading. How can I stand it until one o’clock? she wondered. She shivered with anticipation as she adjusted the lacy collar and sleeves on her dress.
“You look like you’re ready for a party,” Mother said when Jennifer came into the kitchen.
“I am,” she agreed. “The Christmas party!”
“You look lovely, Jenny, but you’d better hurry now and eat your breakfast. The bus will be here soon.”
The school bus rumbled to a stop in front of Jennifer’s house. She climbed aboard and sat next to Sally.
“What do you think we’ll do at the party this afternoon?” Sally asked. “Do you think there will be games and prizes?”
“Oh, I hope so. I just can’t wait!” Jennifer bubbled.
The girls entered their classroom just as the clanging bell signaled nine o’clock. Four more hours until the party!
Every few minutes throughout the morning, Jennifer glanced up at the round clock above the chalkboard—ten o’clock, eleven-thirty; at last it was time for lunch.
When the children returned to their classroom, red and green crepe paper streamed down from the ceiling, and bright signs proclaimed MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HOLIDAYS. At the back of the room a table was loaded with candy, cupcakes, and punch.
“First we’ll play pin the star on the Christmas tree,” Miss Brewster announced. Blindfolded and equipped with a paper star and pin, each of the children tried to place his star at the very top of the green paper tree. Next they played musical chairs to the tune of Christmas carols.
“Now we’re going to play a word game,” Miss Brewster said. Jennifer glanced over at Jeff who was sitting in the next row. She and Jeff were the best spellers in their class—one of them was sure to win the word game.
“When I say ‘go’ write as many words as you can think of that can be made from the letters in MERRY CHRISTMAS,” Miss Brewster explained as she handed out sheets of paper. “These drawing pencils and this sketch pad will go to the person who has the longest list.”
Jennifer gazed longingly at the rainbow of pencils and the creamy colored sketch pad Miss Brewster was holding. What fun it would be to take the pencils and pad out into the woods and draw the brown squirrels. The green pencil is just the color of the spruce trees and the red would be perfect for drawing poinsettias. I just have to win! she thought determinedly.
“Miss Brewster, what if there’s a tie?” Sally asked.
“Then both winners will receive a box of pencils and a sketch pad. Now it’s time to begin. You have fifteen minutes. Ready? Go!”
Jennifer began writing: sit, sat, miss, rim, tear, and on down the page. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jeff writing furiously, never pausing. Jennifer forced her thoughts back to her own list. She had twenty-four words now—mist, hat, hit, ham, tire. A slight noise attracted her attention. Jeff had turned his paper over and was writing on the back! She had to hurry. Yam, ram, mast, hi, tie—forty-nine words. How many does Jeff have? she wondered. Looking up, their eyes met. Jeff’s confident grin spurred her on. Sir, him, tam, rite, cast, tar, she scribbled, her mind racing. Sixty-two words. Surely I’ll win, she thought with assurance.
“Time’s up,” Miss Brewster said. “Put your papers on by desk. You may help yourselves to punch and cupcakes while I find out who our winner is.”
Jennifer nibbled nervously at her cupcake as she watched Miss Brewster check the lists. “All right, boys and girls. We have a winner!” she announced. “Our grand champion word maker for today is …”
The moment’s pause seemed to stretch on for hours as Jennifer waited to hear her name.
“Jeff Mason! Congratulations, Jeff. I hope you’ll enjoy the prize.”
Jennifer turned away, blinking back the tears that flooded her eyes.
“Jennifer,” Miss Brewster called gently.
Jennifer turned around, her head down, her face hidden.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t have been a winner too,” Miss Brewster said, “for you and Jeff almost tied. He had just one more word than you did.”
“Only one more?” Jennifer asked in disbelief. “Then I could have tied with him. I could have won the other set of pencils except, except—” she broke off, her voice faltering.
“Except what, Jennifer?”
Jennifer looked up, a wistful smile brightening her face.
“I thought of one more word, but I just couldn’t use it. Christmas is such a happy season, so full of love. I just couldn’t make hate out of MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Have you ever heard of Alice Liddell? Probably not. Yet when Alice Liddell was only ten years old, she earned a unique place in literary history.
It happened July 4, 1862.
For many days Alice and her two sisters, Lorina and Edith, had been planning a picnic. Even their father was going. As a dean at Oxford University in England, Henry Liddell had little time for such diversions. But after much coaxing by his daughters, he finally agreed to go.
The next morning Alice arose early. She wanted to enjoy every minute of such an exciting day. After she had washed and dressed, she hurried downstairs. Her father was seated at the breakfast table. When he did not smile at her, Alice knew something was wrong.
“I’m sorry, Alice, but I have to miss the picnic today. A messenger just brought word that some very important people are coming to visit the college.”
“But—but why did they have to come today?” Alice questioned. “Why do they have to ruin our picnic?”
Dean Liddell arose and walked over to his daughter. Gently smoothing her long dark hair, he answered, “Now, you know I wouldn’t let anyone ruin your picnic. I’ve already sent word to Reverend Charles Dodgson and Canon Duckworth, inviting them to join you.”
Alice pulled her father down and gave him a big hug. “I still wish you could go with us,” she whispered. “But if you can’t, I’m glad you invited Reverend Dodgson. We will have a merry time with him!”
“Indeed, you are certain to have a merry time with the distinguished Reverend Dodgson, as do the students in his mathematics classes at the college. I had always thought mathematics to be a strictly serious science, but the laughter from his classroom often shakes the entire building.”
Alice giggled. “He is amusing. He always tells such wonderful stories. Thank you for inviting him and Canon Duckworth. I know Lorina and Edith will be glad too.”
Lorina and Edith were glad. They had also spent many pleasant hours listening to Reverend Dodgson’s stories.
Upon arriving at the Liddell home, Reverend Dodgson proposed an added feature to the picnic plans. “Let’s make this a real holiday,” he declared. “We’ll hire a boat and row to Godstow!”
The idea of a boat trip on the River Isis to Godstow three miles away thrilled the girls.
“I can handle one set of oars,” Alice offered, “and we will be in Godstow in an hour!”
Reverend Dodgson smiled, shaking his head. “Oh, no, dear Alice. The canon and I shall man the oars. You would likely row us into the ocean and we would never return.”
A short time later, the happy quintet was sitting in the rowboat. For almost half an hour the girls sang while the men rowed. Then Alice made a suggestion. “Reverend Dodgson, please tell us one of your stories.”
“Oh, yes!” Lorina encouraged.
Reverend Dodgson winked at Canon Duckworth. “Well, I suppose I could come up with some little tale. Then at least the swans won’t be frightened away by your singing.”
As the sturdy rowboat slipped and dipped its way through the water, a story was born on that picnic holiday over one hundred years ago. It was a story of adventure and fantasy, of a young girl named Alice and her exciting adventures in a place called Wonderland.
Since that day, millions of readers and listeners have shared the delight of Alice’s encounters with such lovable and unusual characters as the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, the Queen of Hearts, and many more. Millions of copies of the book, Alice in Wonderland, have been sold in many countries of the world. It has been translated into more than thirty languages, including Arabic and Chinese and is also available in braille for the blind.
Had it not been for little Alice Liddell, the story might have been forgotten after the picnic. “I became a real nuisance to Reverend Dodgson,” Alice recalled years later. “I pestered and pestered him until he finally wrote it down.”
The original story was called Alice’s Adventures Underground, and Reverend Dodgson illustrated the story before giving it to Alice. Keeping a copy for himself, he enjoyed reading it to other children he knew.
Reverend Dodgson’s friends encouraged him to have the story published so that other boys and girls and adults, too, might read it. Finally, after considerable coaxing, he enlarged the story to book length and offered it for publication. He chose to be called Lewis Carroll because not everyone would have approved of a reverend creating tales of a fantasy world.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland quickly captured a vast reading audience for Lewis Carroll. Until his death in 1898, he continued to produce enchanting stories for people around the world. He wrote a fantasy based on a chess game called Through the Looking Glass that introduced several new characters, including the silly twins Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
Although willing to share her memories of the delightful British author, Alice attempted to avoid publicity for herself. Requests for autographs, pictures, and interviews were graciously but firmly refused. “I have done nothing to receive any special attention,” she insisted. “I was only fortunate to be a friend of a kind storyteller.” But who can say that she was not more than that? Perhaps she provided just the inspiration needed for Lewis Carroll to create his classic story of fun and fantasy.

Cesar began looking for the gospel without really realizing it. Although he was already active in a church, Cesar became interested in other religions and started taking his first baby steps toward the truth.

“I would read literature from other churches and I would then pray to Father in Heaven saying, ‘If this is the true church, send your servants to me and have them teach me.’”

Cesar started his search, he says, without even really thinking about what a huge change it would be in his life. But not long after Cesar started praying for an answer, one came.

Cesar’s last name is Gaspar. Fortunate for him, his name fell right after Betty Garcia’s on the alphabetical seating charts for most of his junior high school classes. Since they sat next to each other most of the school day, they became friends, sometimes studying together after school.

“One day she mentioned that she was a member of the Church,” says Cesar. “I got very interested and started asking her what her beliefs were, what her principles were.”

Soon Cesar knew he needed to know more. His thirst for knowledge led him to follow Betty’s brother home from school one day so he would know where her family lived. After working up the courage to knock on her door, Cesar was invited into the house, and Betty and her family had a long talk with him about what it meant to be a Latter-day Saint.

But it was another name that led him to find the family’s house in the first place.

“When I was first learning about the Church, the thing that impressed me the most was its name. There was something very special to me about the fact that the Church had Jesus Christ in its name. It has a very spiritual and good feeling.”

Soon Cesar had a copy of the Book of Mormon—compliments of the Garcia family—and lots of questions.

Attending sacrament meeting for the first time was a real switch for Cesar. It wasn’t anything like the meetings he was accustomed to.

“There was a man carrying the bread and water trays. He was very busy fixing the microphone and saying hello to everyone. There were so many people there, I wondered if they would all fit in the church! It seemed funny that the man fixing the microphone was the bishop.

“It was also a real change to be in church for three hours; that seemed like a long time. I still remember that first Sunday School class. We talked about the birth of Jesus Christ, and I asked a lot of questions. After class, Betty’s brother, Isaac, helped me find the missionaries. I didn’t go to priesthood meeting that day; instead, I had my first discussion with the missionaries.”

That discussion led to more discussions during the week. By Thursday, he had had an interview with the bishop, and the following Sunday—exactly one week after his first attendance at Sunday meetings—he was baptized.

“It was pretty fast,” Cesar admits, “but by that time I had already read the Book of Mormon. Before meeting the missionaries, I had also read Doctrines of Salvation, Truth Restored, and The Miracle of Forgiveness. I had started reading Jesus the Christ. I felt I was ready.”

That was two years ago. Cesar is the only Church member in his family, and it would be easy for him to maybe skip church once in a while, or decide against important programs like seminary—especially since he almost always has to walk to get there! But he doesn’t even think about that. Instead, he thinks about who sees what he does.

“I have to be an example to my family,” he says. “I really try not to make mistakes and to be as perfect as I can because I know they’re watching me.”

As any convert knows, joining the Church can be a big change. Cesar was no exception.

“The Church is more than principles. It’s a way of life,” he says. “The Word of Wisdom, the blessing of the food at every meal, prayer morning and night, early-morning seminary—that was a big change! And there are other things, like studying the scriptures on your own and getting up early for church on Sundays.”

But after two years, Cesar seems comfortable with all those changes. He’s so comfortable, in fact, that he will share the gospel message with anyone who will listen.

“I try to be very careful about comments I make to my friends so that I can teach them about the Church without offending them,” he says.

Although he’s still relatively new in the gospel, you’d never know he hasn’t been a member all his life. Part of it can probably be attributed to the fact that Cesar’s a quick study and that he has a great desire to know the truth. But Cesar says that there’s another, more important reason he’s learned so much so fast.

“When I was reading the Book of Mormon, before I joined the Church, I came to the part about Jesus Christ in America, and I knew it was true,” says Cesar. “At the time, I didn’t really know that it was the Holy Ghost, but I felt very peaceful. That moment was a new beginning in my life. I felt like I could start all over and do things in a different and better way.”

And that strong prompting has translated into bold action. It’s the secret to Cesar’s great energy in living and sharing the gospel, despite the usual obstacles and weaknesses that he, like most people, has to overcome. Cesar keeps a journal to remind himself of, and to eventually share with others, the reasons he lives the gospel. It helps him keep his spirits up when the going gets tough.

“Being an example and writing in my journal will help me leave a legacy. When they read what I have written, my children and grandchildren will know that being the only member of the Church in my family isn’t easy at all, and I have had to work very hard.”

They’ll know a lot of other things about him, too—like the fact that he loves his calling as a stake missionary; that he loves to be around other Church members, especially the young men and women in his ward and stake; and, most important, that he has a testimony.

“I’ve noticed that many people think I’m not old enough to know or to receive an answer about something important, like religion. But I have a testimony that no matter your age, if you have a sincere heart and if you ask, you will receive an answer for sure,” says Cesar.

Cesar hasn’t ever sung the lyrics “Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked,” but when he hears those words, his eyes light up, and he says with a smile, “That’s my song! I walk a lot.”

There are differences, of course, between Cesar and the pioneer children of old. Cesar walks through the busy streets of Guadalajara, not the open plains. And Cesar doesn’t gather fuel for the evening’s fire or feed livestock at the end of the day. But he, too, is a pioneer.

One day his children and grandchildren will talk about their ancestor Cesar Gaspar and how he loved to gather friends together and give them the wonderful gospel message. And they’ll talk about the fact that, even though he had to walk most of the places he wanted to go, he was always singing a song—even if you couldn’t hear it. It was a song about how happy the gospel made him and how strong his testimony was. He may or may not have even been much of a singer, but it was a tune he loved to carry.

Right in his heart.

Elaine S. McKay tells the story of this remarkable woman, Aunt Carrie, in the Ensign.
Aunt Carrie would not have expected to be remembered by anyone but her family. She lived quietly in a small Utah community. [In fact, the family home is still standing just down the road from our home.] To anyone outside an area twelve miles square, she was and is a stranger. And yet, there is something familiar about her uncommon courage. She is like our mother, our grandmother, an aunt, a niece or sister. Aunt Carrie represents countless women, unknown and unsung, who patiently do the thing that needs to be done and who in reality accomplish the important work of the world. She reminds us that deeds need not be great to be heroic. . . .
. . . On 26 January 1895 George [Reese Harman] and Caroline were married in the Salt Lake Temple. [Caroline was twenty-two.] During the next fourteen years they bought land, built a home, and became parents of seven children. Happiness grew out of industry, and they sorrowed only at the loss of their eldest child, George Luther, who died when he was four months old. . . .
During irrigation turns, George often worked at night. One evening, wet and chilled, he caught a cold which developed into pleurisy. He died 12 August 1912, and Caroline, at 39, was left with the responsibility of a farm and six children. Her oldest daughter, Annie, was fifteen; the baby, Maurice, had just turned three.
Four months later Caroline’s sorrow deepened as she endured the death of her mother. But Caroline rallied to the responsibilities of life. Each day she arose at 5:00 a.m.—to tend to household duties and to work in the fields and orchards. During the weekly irrigation turns, she would make beds in the wagon, hitch up the horses, and drive with her young sons to the fields to set the water. Three or four times during the night, Caroline would awaken the boys and help them “change” the water. Only during haying season did they hire help. Caroline wanted her family to develop and use its own resources . . . .
During World War I, Caroline’s Relief Society responsibilities multiplied. In 1914, the sisters began meeting one day a week to knit sweaters for soldiers, roll bandages, and prepare other Red Cross supplies to be shipped overseas. In 1917, Caroline became Relief Society president of the Granger Ward.
When the war ended, the deadly flu epidemic followed the soldiers home. Funerals were frequent. The Granger Relief Society made burial clothing, lined caskets, draped the chapel podium in white, cared for the sick, and comforted the bereaved.
David and Grace [her sister and brother-in-law] were both stricken. In January of 1919, Grace gave birth to a son; a few hours later, weakened by the flu, she died. Grieving for her beloved sister, Caroline brought to her own home a six-hour-old baby boy—her sister’s child, but a child whom she would always look upon as her own.
Less than a month after Grace’s death, . . . .in February, her daughter Annie died of the flu, a month before she expected her first child. . . .
When Annie, with her unborn child, died, Caroline’s health broke. Weeks later, she arose from her bed, calm and determined. The doctor diagnosed her illness as sugar diabetes. From that time on, she gave herself three insulin shots daily and carefully weighed her food. It was a private matter; she never spoke of her health. In the years to come, she maintained energy, strength, a cheerful countenance, and an indomitable sense of humor.
Following Grace’s death, David came to Caroline’s home each day to see his baby son, Pete. . . . David’s nine children needed a mother and he, a wife. On 29 October 1919, David and Caroline were married in the Salt Lake Temple. So, seven years after George’s death, Caroline and her five children came to live in the big house on 3600 West and 4100 South.
For many years this house was a central gathering place for neighborhood children who liked teeter-totters, swings made of rubber tires, kick-the-can games, and run-sheepie-run. Like all visitors, the children seldom left without a “bit to eat.” . . .
But at least twice a day the house was quiet. At breakfast and dinner time, all the leaves of the sixteen-foot-square table came out of the closet, the meal was spread, and it was time for family prayer. The huge Harman household tolerated teasing, wrestling, and noise. But quarrels were not permitted. Family members felt a unity that had begun long before David and Caroline married. Caroline honored David as patriarch, supported him as first counselor in the bishopric, and loved him deeply.
In the spring of 1924, an itching rash spread over David’s body. Despite his discomfort, he worked long hours. While dipping sacks of potatoes (or wheat, depending on the account) in a solution to prevent the disease, he noted that the rash on his hands healed. After checking with a doctor, David decided to bathe in the solution. Accounts differ as to what and how much he used, but the result was the solution literally ate him alive. His skin came off on clothing and bed sheets; his tongue and teeth fell out; his internal organs were burned beyond use. After one week, during which David never lost consciousness, he passed away from this world.
David died with great courage and little complaint. Caroline lived in the same manner. At age 51, she was again a widow. She was now responsible for fourteen children, the youngest of whom was five-year-old Pete. She suffered complications from Diabetes. She was also Relief Society president of a ward with 948 members, 22 of whom were widows; and for Caroline, who served in the days before Welfare Services, this meant “mothering” the entire twelve-mile-square ward. Her way was not to ask for help, but to give it. Always someone was being born or someone was dying; someone was ill or unhappy or hungry. Caroline knew what to do about illness, childbirth, and death. And she knew how to find happiness. When others were wild with grief, she was there to make beds, mop floors, fix meals, and sit up through the night with the bereaved to comfort them with her quiet strength. She became known throughout the territory as Aunt Carrie—kind, cheerful, loving, wise.
How did she do it all with her large family? She did it with her large family. Year after year, the Harman sons drove her in a horse and buggy to visit every home in the ward—many times. Her black buggy would go to the houses of those who had “enough and to spare” to gather goods to be shared with those who had little or nothing. The Harman girls frequently cooked and served meals to neighbors in need, and the boys stayed overnight with the aged or afflicted when Aunt Carrie could not be there.
Aunt Carrie was a resourceful manager, and the children learned her ways. They had no money to spend, but the Harmans did not think of themselves as being “poor.” They made bread, butter, cheese, horse radish, corned beef, apple cider, vinegar, and soap. Both sons and daughters farmed the land and cared for their animals, their orchard , and their garden. Every fall they bottled fruit, meat, and tomatoes and buried turnips, parsnips, carrots, and potatoes beneath the sawdust in the basement ice room. The girls sewed their few articles of clothing and kept their home scrubbed and orderly. If their chores were not done before the school bus came, they finished their tasks and walked to school. Aunt Carrie believed that idleness was a sin and taught that selfishness was the seed of misery. Everyone in the family learned to work—and more important, they learned to share.
Within [a few weeks following a third marriage on 11 March 1925, her new husband] Eugene suffered a stroke, and became an invalid. For five years until his death in October 1930, Aunt Carrie prepared his food, helped him bathe and dress, and ministered to his many needs.
In 1929 Aunt Carrie was released as president of the Relief Society. She has served in that organization under three bishops for some eighteen years. . . .
Aunt Carrie devoted much of her time to developing her chicken business. Her chickens had become a symbol of her doctrine of hard work and independence. During the worst of the Great Depression, the well which provided water for the house and chicken coops went dry. Aunt Carrie refused the help of the government programs under which she qualified for a new well; so Pete, Jack, and Jake carried water from across the road. Carrying water for the house was one thing, but quenching the thirst of hundreds of chickens was quite another. Finally, when Aunt Carrie had saved sufficient funds, she had the well repaired.
Years later, when all the children were gone, the pump sometimes failed. During winter time, Aunt Carrie would scoop snow into a big oval “boiler,” melt it on the back of her coal stove, and carry warm water to her flock. . . .
. . . Aunt Carrie expected everything around her to be productive, and she would not have a lazy chicken. A hen who lacked commitment was invited for Sunday dinner . . . .
[As she neared the end of her life, Aunt Carrie said,] “I can face Grace . . . because I know that I did all she would have done if I had been called away and she had stayed. I have no regrets. Of course,” she added quietly, “in some ways all our children could do better. And they will. We taught them right.” . . .
. . . Aunt Carrie, . . . according to her son Leon Weston (Pete) Harman, “had every reason to be waited on. Yet she continually served others. She never complained. She never quit. Aunt Carrie asked for so little, and gave so much.”

I learned something of how prophets feel about those who may be left on the outside looking in — or in other words excluded. It is a simple story, but one that for me conveyed a powerful message. Some years ago I had been asked to make a brief report to the Church Board of Education regarding some things that were being done here to allow more students to attend our school. (I notice from a recent press release that you continue working to make that happen.) I made my report with some emphasis on how many fewer had been denied admission during the current year than had been the case for the previous year. It was a significant number, in the thousands. In retrospect, I think I may have sounded more pleased with that progress than I wish I had. As the report was concluded, there seemed a momentary silence, and then President Hinckley asked: "What happened to the "few" who were still not admitted?" His thought was not about the many who were in, but rather about the few who were not. With prophets as with temples the point is the inclusion of all who wish it.

President Kimball taught me a lesson during my call to become a General Authority. He asked if I would come to Salt Lake City to serve as a General Authority for the rest of my life. I was overcome with emotion. My reply: “President Kimball, I just don’t know what to say.” Then he said, “I only want you to say yes.” The lesson was clear; there is no need for an eloquent speech to express our commitment or our love and devotion when accepting a call from the prophet. He already knows these things.

When I first attended church, I often went alone, as I was the only member in my family. At times, I struggled to feel a sense of belonging, which would increase temptations for connection in the wrong places. I realized one way I could combat this was by engaging more deeply with my congregation. As the Lord teaches us in Doctrine and Covenants 58:27, we should be “anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of [our] own free will.”
I started by volunteering to help clean the chapel. I began attending all the ward activities and offering to help wherever I could. Gradually, I built deeper connections with the members of my ward. One family began inviting me to their home evenings, Sunday dinners, and even just to hang out and play games. My family and I have become great friends with them, and it’s been a beautiful experience for all of us.
By immersing myself in my ward, I’ve found opportunities to connect with others who share the same values and standards, including the law of chastity. My ward family has been a great source of support in helping me to stay faithful and strong.

“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”

I remember the story of one young woman who was put in a similar situation. She was out on a date with a young man. He went out to a remote area, parked the car, turned the key off, and began to move over to the passenger side.

She said, “Stop where you are. I am not that kind of a girl. You take me home, or I will walk.” She was seven or eight miles away from her home. Later, she said, “I was never more frightened in my life when I made the decision, as well as when he took me home, because we were going 90 miles an hour down that country road.” And yet she had already made her decision.

Two young brothers stood atop a small cliff that overlooked the pristine waters of a blue lake. This was a popular diving spot, and the brothers had often talked about making the jump—something they had seen others do.

Although they both wanted to make the jump, neither one wanted to be first. The height of the cliff wasn’t that great, but to the two young boys, it seemed the distance increased whenever they started to lean forward—and their courage was fading fast.

Finally, one brother put one foot at the edge of the cliff and moved decisively forward. At that moment his brother whispered, “Maybe we should wait until next summer.”

The first brother’s momentum, however, was already pulling him forward. “Brother,” he responded, “I’m committed!”

He splashed into the water and surfaced quickly with a victorious shout. The second brother followed instantly. Afterward, they both laughed about the first boy’s final words before plunging into the water: “Brother, I’m committed.”

In my last year of high school, I wanted to make the varsity (or advanced) tennis team. I had to beat the girl ranked immediately above me to make the team. But when I played her, I lost.
Even though I was disappointed, I played on the junior varsity team. In the final junior varsity tournament, I was ranked in first place. But what do you know? I lost the final match. I cried—again.
I was disappointed again later. After I received an award for earning good grades and playing sports, they decided to take the award away—because apparently, it was only for those who played varsity.
At the time, tennis was a big part of my life, and those disappointments felt huge. What I didn’t realize was that the Savior was always with me, helping me. Those huge disappointments didn’t last forever, even if it felt like they would.