Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago when one of my daughters was a small, exuberant child we were all sitting around the fireplace as families do at the happy Christmas season. It had been a good, satisfying, full holiday, and the stress of the hustle and the bustle of the day was behind us, leaving the warm after-glow of this happy day. Fathers, mothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles all chatted quietly by the fire, and into this large group of people who loved each other bounded my child with the exclamation, “Look who’s here, everybody!”

Our curiosity was piqued by this enthusiastic announcement. We looked beyond her with interest and inquired, “Who is it?”

And she returned our questioning glances with sparkling eyes and a face wreathed in smiles and announced, “Me!”

It was not what we had expected, somehow, but I shall never forget that moment. This little bit of a girl taught her older kinfolk an important lesson. In a sense she was saying what the central figure represents: “There is no one more important than the individual.” The individual human being is the most important entity on the face of the earth.

For years, I have wanted to create a large poppy display and in November of last year, I voiced this to our Relief Society president, Yvonne Kerr, who expressed a similar desire. Because we were coming to the close of a horrible year of lockdowns, we felt that setting this up as a project for 2021 would be an ideal time to do it as it would give us something to focus on while we were restricted to our homes and by giving us a common purpose, we would not feel so isolated. Little did we know at that point that we were heading into further lockdowns and this project became a lifeline for many women. The culmination of this work was to be a display at the chapel where we would hold a special commemorative meeting, to which we would invite community leaders as well as our members and friends.
Yvonne asked me to pull a small committee together to make this happen and I knew exactly who to ask.
Esther Wilford became our internal communications director, whose job it was to keep the sisters and ward members updated with our progress. When she relocated out of our ward, we enlisted Julie Beveridge who also did a wonderful job.
Yvonne Kerr acted as our external communications director. She sent out all the external invitations to official delegates, war veterans and medal holders to attend our event.
Mandy Watson acted as the technical and structural engineer (to ensure the large display was stable). The fact that the structure is so sound is very much down to Mandy’s skills and hard work. Part of the display was the silhouette of a soldier. Mandy built all the framework and did all the sealing to make it waterproof before spending many hours as doing several coats of undercoat and paint. She really needs to be acknowledged more for her role in it all. I had the idea and vision, but she engineered the whole thing. Mandy has lots of experience with making sure structures and frameworks are safe and secure and we would need her skills when it came to putting the display together. Mandy is in the middle of restoring a very large, old house and so many of the materials that went into the framework and structure of the display came from her home—from the netting holding the poppies to the cobblestones that weigh the stands down, to the scaffolding outriggers used to stabilize the frame.
I had the easy task of chairing the committee and acting as a wool merchant and distributor. Because we commenced the project during a four-tier lockdown in Scotland, no one could get out to buy wool so I bought in bulk then coordinated with individuals, finding safe ways to deliver and distribute.
Thirty women made and contributed poppies. Because we wouldn’t physically collect poppies from sisters, every four weeks, Esther, and then Julie, would send a request on various messaging platforms to ask how many poppies had been made since the last count. Sisters would relay this to me, and I would keep a tally in a small notebook. We were hoping to reach a total of 1,500 poppies, feeling we could do a nice, decent display with that amount. However, I soon had to keep a record using a spreadsheet because within no time at all we had by far exceeded our initial goal. By the week before the display went up, we had received a staggering 5,589 poppies!
3,592 were made by sisters from the Alloa Ward. Another 262 by sisters from other wards around the country.
There were 967 poppies made by a friend of one of our members and a further 692 made by others not of our faith based up and down the country who belong to a Facebook crafting group. There were also 76 that came from a nonmember relative of mine in Holland.
We were grateful to all 30 women who made and added to the total, but recognition should go to a committee member, Julie Beveridge, who made a very impressive 1,373 poppies herself.
A brother who gave plenty of help throughout the project, Eammon Brereton, made a ‘Lest We Forget’ sign as part of the display.
We estimate that thousands of hours were spent by so many in the preparations for this event but they all felt that this truly has been a labour of love.
Other neighbour and local companies contributed the steel and used their equipment to cut out the soldier’s gun, others donated tenting fabric, and super heavy-duty guy pegs from rebar. A kind and generous benefactor donated £200 for the making of the soldier. A self-employed contractor came to the building on the final day of construction, and when he saw that we were rapidly running out of time, took the afternoon off to help us with some of the wire tethering and knocking in ground spikes.
On 22 October we held an outside lighting up ceremony, conducted by Sister Yvonne Kerr. Besides members of the ward, we had in attendance invited guests who included the lord lieutenant of Clackmannanshire, Lt Col (Retd) Johnny Stewart, and the most senior member of the Alloa Ward, Sister Dorothy Kendall, who pushed a button that lit up the monumental display. Esther Wilford beautifully sang Vera Lynn’s “When The Lights Go on Again, All over The World” and “I Vow to Thee My Country”. One of our Primary children, Emma Black, read the much-quoted lines from ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon. People passing stopped to join the crowd, inside and outside of the fencing surrounding the grounds.
We tried to give each poppy its own space to clearly represent an individual. There are varying shades of red and a myriad of patterns, symbolizing the differences in those individuals who, all together have made a huge difference for each of us.
Just before the button was pressed to illuminate the display, we acknowledged to the assembled crowd, many who were not members of our Church, that as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we try to put Christ at the centre of all we do and it was in His name that on that night and during the season of remembrance, we honour those from World War I and World War II who fought and fell to give us our freedom, but the display also honours and gives reverence to those in the past and those who currently protect our land, shores, and skies from unseen enemies. They are the real heroes, and that really is what the display is about.
Yvonne Kerr, president of the Relief Society, said: “We really felt that there was a need for people who weren’t able to get together to be able to do something in unity. “It was a good way for the women of the Church to stay in contact with one another and to be able to serve and help other people.” She added: “As COVID started to progress, we really wanted to run with the idea, to be able to acknowledge that there were other people who had sacrificed a lot more than we got to sacrifice. We were very privileged to be able to acknowledge them by creating the poppies.”
Yvonne Kerr told the Advertiser: “It was very well attended. We were surprised by how many people came. It was really wonderful—a lovely event and a great tribute to those who served in our military services and a great way to thank them for what they’ve done for us.”

One evening we were eating treats outside and reading in the Book of Mormon about the fall of the Nephites. I felt impressed to ask the children why they thought the Nephites had turned so wicked. Six-year-old Celeste said she thought the Nephites and Lamanites had stopped saying their daily prayers. We all agreed that the fall of the Nephites started with forgetting prayer and other seemingly little things. At that moment, the thought came to me to invite the children to pray with more thought and feeling.

The following day I asked them how their prayers went. This gave them a chance to share their experiences and gave me a chance to further share my testimony of prayer. Not every family scripture study experience has gone this well, but when we have had discussions and invitations to act as part of our study, the scriptures have become more meaningful.

Study the words of President David O. McKay, who tells of how, in his youth, he knelt and “prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster” that “God would declare to [him] the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith.”
President McKay related that when he arose from his knees, he had to admit that “no spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say that I am just the same [boy] that I was before I prayed.”
I don’t know how young David felt in his heart at that time, but I’m sure he must have been disappointed—perhaps frustrated that he didn’t receive the spiritual experience that he had hoped for. But that didn’t discourage him from continuing his search for that knowledge.
The answer to his prayers did come, but not until years later, when he was serving as a missionary. Why was the answer to his prayer so long delayed? President McKay believed that this spiritual manifestation “came as a natural sequence to the performance of duty.”

Sister Groberg remembers with deep appreciation the closeness among the youth of her age in their ward. She gives thanks, in part, to the quiet, powerful influence of a humble, dedicated Sunday School teacher whose life and example made a lasting impression. She explained: “Brother Richard Maxwell was our teacher. He was self-educated,” she recalled. “He never knew his real name, his parents, or any of his ancestors: He had been raised in an orphanage. Someway in his wandering through life, he found the true church. He had such a beautiful testimony that the gospel was what life was all about, and he had a wonderful, understanding way with young people. He loved us,” she declared, then continued with warmth in her voice: “He was able to teach and reach us in his own humble way.”
When Brother Maxwell died of a heart attack, Jean, along with the other youth in the North Hollywood Ward still in their teens, felt so grateful for his life and his love and influence in their lives that they felt they had lost a dear friend. Sister Groberg remembered that her sister, Marilyn, was invited to speak at his funeral. “She went around to all his students to get their feelings for this humble, great man who had become such a friend to each of us. Our feeling for Brother Maxwell,” Sister Groberg said, “was a very special thing.”
These grateful students felt a strong desire to somehow express their appreciation for their friend and teacher. “It took some time after he died to collect the money,” she recalled. “Several months, I believe. We sponsored many projects. We took a little box to all our firesides and finally collected the money we needed. We wanted to buy a redwood tree. We all agreed that a redwood tree, when it grew up, would appropriately symbolize Brother Maxwell’s great strength and stature.” The youth were united in this special project. Someone was responsible for having a plaque made to place at the base of the tree, and others arranged for a fitting program. On the appointed date the members of Brother Maxwell’s Sunday School class gathered together for this special memorial service. Together they planted the tree, which they knew would become in time a mighty redwood. This living tribute stands today tall and stately by the side of the chapel and a beautiful bronze plaque at its base reads, “In memory of Richard Maxwell, our beloved teacher whose example was like the redwood, tall and masterly.”

When Patrick was 19, he lost his father and brother-in-law in a tragic car accident in Saudi Arabia. “My world turned upside down with their loss,” he says. His father’s guiding hand, loving encouragement, and joyful view of the world were gone. Lost in grief and emptiness for a time, Patrick went home to England with his mother but eventually returned to work in Saudi Arabia.
“I had all sorts of valuable opportunities to learn and grow and see how businesses worked,” he says. He was especially grateful for “a wonderful boss who coached and guided me and became a dear friend. He was one of several father-type figures I’ve been blessed with since my father’s death.”

The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.

After a day at school in late fall many years ago when I was a 15-year-old boy, my mother and I were returning to our ranch home. Mother taught at the school, and she had waited for me to finish basketball practice. As we drove up the dirt lane that led to the house, to our horror we saw a large plume of smoke curling up from the roof—the house was on fire! We jumped from the car and ran across the yard toward the house. At that same moment my father, who had been working in the field and had seen the smoke, arrived on the scene. He ran to the front door and kicked it open. Flames that had been trapped inside leaped out. There was no way to enter. The fire had already engulfed the house.
As a family we stood silently and watched as the flames devoured the stricken building. First the roof fell straight down into the basement, causing a great burst of bright sparks to fly over the yard. Then the walls, one by one, toppled over into the same hole. In 30 minutes it was over. Only a tiny wisp of smoke rose from the ashes of what had been.
The nearest neighbors came to offer their help. They kindly took us to their home for the night. There were no extra beds, but with plenty of warm blankets and pillows, a place was made on the floor for us to spend the night.
I lay on the floor unable to sleep. In my mind’s eye I saw the flames consuming the house and everything that was inside of it: clothing, beds, furniture, priceless pictures, documents—nothing was saved. It was more than I could bear. The tears slipped from my eyes, and I sobbed aloud out of desperation and despair.
Nearby lay my mother and father. They could not close their eyes. Far into the night they had whispered about the loss and what they could possibly do to recover. My sobs caused Mother to rise from the floor and make her way to me. She knelt beside me, took me into her arms, kissed me, dried my tears, and reassured me that everything would be all right.
“But, Mother, we have lost everything,” I cried. “We have nothing.”
“There, there, my dear son,” she replied as she patted my face. “You do not understand. We still have our family. Not one of us was hurt in the fire. We have our dear friends and, most important, we have the Church and the gospel. Don’t you see? We have everything.”
That following Saturday night the tiny community had a party at the town hall. Everyone came from miles around. They brought presents of every kind: clothes, food, blankets, furniture, hundreds of dollars. One sweet family offered a small vacant family cabin, rent free, for the rest of the winter. It was an outpouring of love and generosity like nothing that had been seen before. Why, I had more clothes than I had ever had before in my life. And we survived that winter in spite of the tragedy.
The years passed, and I had become a man with a family of my own—a beautiful wife and six wonderful children. We had settled in Rexburg, Idaho, where for many years I taught at Ricks College (now BYU—Idaho). We had built a house on the east bench, above the city.
My parents had moved to a small town nearby—Sugar City, Idaho. They had built a lovely little home and were very comfortable. Then it happened. A dam built on the Teton River burst, and millions of gallons of water poured out of the reservoir, flooding the peaceful communities below. A wall of water 10 feet high rushed through the valley, sweeping away everything before it. Several sawmills were located in the valley, and the water picked up thousands of logs that became battering rams, crashing into buildings and literally causing them to explode with their terrible force. The cattle, horses, sheep, houses, and everything in the path of the raging water were gone. The water pushed a cloud of thick dust in front of it, and many of the animals trying to escape suffocated before the water engulfed them. Nearly every home in Sugar City was destroyed and washed away. Thankfully a warning had been sounded in sufficient time for almost all the people in the valley to get safely to higher ground.
Sister Hammond and I were out of town attending meetings in Boise, Idaho. When word of the flood came, we drove the five hours back to Rexburg. It was midnight when we arrived. All of the highways were closed. We came in over the dry farms on dirt roads. No lights were to be seen in the valley. Everything was in darkness. Only the moon shone brightly, and its reflection could be seen for miles on the now still waters left standing on the valley floor.
As we drove into the driveway of our home, five different families rushed outside to greet us. They had come because their houses were completely gone, vanished in the muddy water. My mother had put a few personal items into a small plastic basket and carried them with her as she and my father fled from their home. For the second time in her life everything of material worth was gone. There was no shelter and no food. All of them were weeping. They were so sad and so afraid.
We spread blankets as beds all over the house. After kneeling together in solemn, tender, humble prayer, everyone found a spot to lie down for the remainder of the night. There was no sleep that night. From the darkness could be heard the pitiful lowing of the surviving cattle. In the early morning hours I heard the muffled sounds of someone weeping. It was my heartbroken mother. I quickly arose from my bed and made my way through the hall into the room where she lay.
I gathered her little frame into my arms. I kissed her sweet face and whispered my love for her.
“Oh, Mel,” she cried, “what are we to do? Everything that we had is gone. We have nothing!”
“It is all right, Dear. Don’t be afraid.” And then I remembered what she had lovingly taught me so many years before. “Mother,” I whispered, “don’t you remember? Why, we have everything. Our family, our friends, the Church, and the gospel of Jesus Christ. We have everything!”
And she remembered. We wept together, and tears of sorrow became tears of gratitude.
“Oh, yes,” was her reply, “we still do have everything! Everything that is important.”

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar.
Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat.
He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste. We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree. “Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction.
“I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more.
The sophisticate I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?” I produced them, wondering.
She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

As a social worker working as a child abuse investigator in Southern California, I was assigned to work in the drug unit of a local government agency. One of my duties was to provide services to new mothers who had delivered drug exposed babies. My job was to help the mothers identify their problems, overcome their substance abuse issues, and to reunify with their babies which had been removed from their care. On one occasion, I had a young mother on my caseload that suffered from a severe heroin addiction. She had given birth to a baby boy just days earlier while under the influence of this damaging substance. At her request, I met her next to a trash dumpster in a back alley of a rundown neighborhood. There sitting on the curb she told me that she knew what she was doing was wrong. She knew of the dangers she was inflicting upon herself and her unborn child. She explained to me that she had never wanted to have children due to her current lifestyle, but now it was too late. Now she was a mother. With tears in her eyes she asked me if I could help her become the best mother to her child. I knew she was talking about her divine nature, but she could not know of this—she only felt it. She knew of the important role of being a mother to this new baby and she had work to do to get there. I went on to help her get into a drug treatment program, a parenting class, and counseling. I assisted her along the way. Several years later a co-worker ran into her and she recognized her badge. It was the same type that I had worn when I worked with her. She asked this co-worker to let me know that she was working fulltime and that her son was doing well in her care. She wanted to let me know that she was thankful that I had treated her with respect and like a friend when nobody else would.

Then I would ask you to take a little journey with me—a journey to a hospital in Salt Lake City, the University Hospital, where a few weeks ago I had the privilege of being summoned to the side of a man who was an inactive member of the Church and who had many weaknesses, a man who was in danger of dying. As I walked to the hospital ward, I noted the sign on the doorway: “Intensive care. Enter only upon permission of the nurse.” I sought the required permission and then went to the bedside of this good man.
The great machines of medical science were by his side, mechanically taking over when his heart would falter. An oxygen mask covered his face. He turned his face toward me, but there was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes because the man in whose presence I stood was totally blind. Yet as he heard my voice and thought back on more pleasant times, tears began to stream from those sightless eyes, and he asked a blessing from one who held the priesthood of God.
At the conclusion of that blessing, I recalled how this man had been blessed with a beautiful voice. While he was not a regular attender at church, he would come—particularly on Mother’s Day—and sing that beautiful number “Mother Machree” and other songs honoring mothers. No person who ever heard him sing left without a greater appreciation for his own mother, which resulted in his honoring her and all womanhood.
Similarly, he would participate in Christmas programs and would sing “O Holy Night.” No person who heard him sing this song came away without dedicating his life to better serving the Lord and keeping Christmas rather than spending Christmas.
The thought came into my heart that here is a man who, in his own humble way, has used the talent that God has given him to bring joy and ­happiness into the lives of others. Multiply his talent—a beautiful voice—with the talents which you possess—eyes that see, ears that hear, and hearts that know and feel—and then think where your Christmas opportunity might be this very year. It may come at a time when you least expect it.

About 15 years ago I was in my car somewhere on the North Dakota prairie headed home to Grand Forks. It was a typical winter night in North Dakota – 10 degrees below zero, waves of powdery snow blowing across the highway, thousands of stars visible in the clear moonless sky, not a town or car in sight. I was checking channels on the radio and came upon an interesting program. It featured the conductor of a symphony orchestra. He was analyzing a passage from a Mozart symphony. He was attempting to pinpoint and describe the genius of this particular composition. Even though I lacked a full technical understanding of his explanation, I was fascinated by the analysis and, of course, I was duly reminded that Mozart was indeed a musical genius. At the conclusion of the vignette the radio announcer said, “Join us next time for another episode of What Makes it Great. In the moment that I heard the title of that radio program, What Makes it Great, I had one of those wonderful moments of enlightenment that was about 20 years in the making. I understood what it was that so many of my undergraduate professors were trying to teach me when I was a college student. Through their choice of subject matter and readings for classes, and through their comments about things that were important to know, they were exposing me to what was the most interesting, the most profound, the most successful, the most beautiful, in essence, the best that their discipline had to offer. On that frigid night as I experienced this insight, I was warmed by a feeling of tremendous gratitude for the great gift I had been given those many years ago.

In spite of how hard that experience was, I forgave my friends for what they did. I knew they didn’t understand my standards and my decision to live the Word of Wisdom, so I forgave them and chose not to have any bad feelings toward them. When we finished school, I left on my mission but continued to communicate with Juan and Francisco. I wrote them frequent letters sharing with them the gospel and my testimony of Jesus Christ. I invited them to repent and to attend church. To my great surprise, one of them actually went.
I had frequently invited my friends to Sunday meetings before, but none had accepted until now. Although I couldn’t attend with Juan, my brothers and my father were there to help him and fellowship him. My family accepted him, and Juan felt very comfortable at church. He started changing little by little until he made the decision to get baptized. I was thrilled for him and even more thrilled when he told me he had learned to love Jesus Christ because of my letters. When I came home from my mission, I also stayed close with Francisco, and after some time, he and his wife also got baptized. Today, Juan and Francisco are still two of my closest friends.

Distractions can sometimes prevent us from experiencing God’s love in our family relationships and activities. A mother, feeling that gadgets were taking over her family relationships, came up with a solution. At the dinner table and at other family times, she just calls out, “Phones on the deck; let us have face time.” She says that this is the new norm for their family and that it strengthens their relationship as a family when they have real face time. They now enjoy quality Come, Follow Me discussions together as a family.

8. Share the good times, but also share the bad. Some of the loneliest moments in life come when you have to feel crummy all by yourself. The heartaches, the all-night term papers, the unexpected expenses—all these unwelcome events are made a little more bearable when you can talk about them. I remember one Saturday evening after my roommates and I had all returned from a fireside. Suddenly, Carol was standing in the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks. As we clustered around her, she said softly, “Sometimes don’t you just feel like crying?” We agreed, and pretty soon we were all there crying together. Thanks to a roommate who wasn’t afraid to be herself and share her emotions, our apartment grew a little closer that night.

Recently, while traveling for a weekend assignment, I realized my carry-on bag wouldn’t fit in the overhead space. I needed that bag. It contained important, essential material. Almost before I had a chance to react, an attendant took my bag, wrapped a tag around its handle, handed me a luggage claim ticket, and whisked my precious possession away.
Throughout that flight, I had an anxious feeling. I hoped someone was taking care of the bag and its contents. I hoped it would not be forgotten, neglected, or lost. I clutched my claim ticket, hoping for a successful reunion.
My story had a happy ending; my bag and I were reunited. But the experience got me thinking.

I recently went with priesthood leaders to visit the homes of four women in Honduras. These sisters and their families were in need of priesthood keys and authority, priesthood ordinances and covenants, and priesthood power and blessings.
We visited a dear sister who is married and has two beautiful children. She is faithful and active in the Church, and she is teaching her children to choose the right. Her husband supports her Church activity, but he is not a member. Their family is strong, but to enjoy greater strength, they need additional priesthood blessings. They need the father to receive the ordinances of baptism and the gift of the Holy Ghost and to have the priesthood conferred upon him. They need the priesthood power that can come through the endowment and sealing.
Our next visit was at the home of two single sisters, women of great faith. One sister has a son preparing for a mission. The other sister is receiving treatment for cancer. In times of discouragement and despair, they remember the Savior’s Atonement and are filled with faith and hope. They both need the additional blessings and power available through temple ordinances. We encouraged them to join the future missionary in their home in preparing to receive those ordinances.
Our last visit was at the home of a sister whose husband recently died in a tragic accident. A recent convert to the Church, she had not understood that she could receive her own endowment and be sealed to her husband. When we taught her that these blessings could be available to her and her deceased husband, she was filled with hope. Knowing that through temple ordinances and covenants her family can be sealed together, she has faith and determination to face the trials ahead.
This widow’s son is preparing to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. His ordination will be a great blessing to her and her family. They will have a priesthood holder in their home.
When I met these faithful women in Honduras, I could see that they were striving to keep their families active in the gospel. They expressed gratitude for covenant-keeping ward members who tenderly watch over them and help support their temporal and spiritual needs. However, each of these sisters had needs that had not been fully met.
In each of the three homes we visited, a wise priesthood leader asked each sister if she had received a priesthood blessing. Each time the answer was no. Each sister asked for and received a priesthood blessing that day. Each wept as she expressed gratitude for the comfort, direction, encouragement, and inspiration that came from her Heavenly Father through a worthy priesthood holder.
These sisters inspired me. They showed reverence for God and His power and authority. I was also grateful for the priesthood leaders who visited these homes with me. When we left each home, we counseled together about how to help these families receive the ordinances they needed to progress on the covenant path and strengthen their homes.
There exists today a great need for men and women to cultivate respect for each other as sons and daughters of God and reverence for our Father in Heaven and His priesthood—His power and authority.
He has a plan for us, and when we exercise our faith and trust in His plan, our reverence for Him and for His priesthood power and authority will be strengthened.
In the worldwide leadership training Strengthening the Family and the Church through the Priesthood, we were taught that sisters who don’t have priesthood holders in their homes need never feel alone. They are blessed and strengthened through the ordinances they have received and the covenants they keep. They should not hesitate to reach out when help is needed. Elder M. Russell Ballard taught that every woman in the Church needs to know that she has a bishop, an elders quorum president, a home teacher, and other worthy priesthood holders whom she can rely on to come into her home and assist her and, as Sister Rosemary M. Wixom added, to “give a blessing.”9
Elder Ballard also taught: “Our Father in Heaven is generous with His power. All men and all women have access to this power for help in our own lives. All who have made sacred covenants with the Lord and who honor those covenants are eligible to receive personal revelation, to be blessed by the ministering of angels, [and] to commune with God.”10

Cheating at school is practically expected where I live. But I still live up to my standards and am respected for it. And you will be too.
I can tell you this because one guy was mad at me because I wouldn’t let him cheat off my test. He didn’t like me for a long time. But at the end of the year, he was able to joke about it. Be an example and others will follow. When you get depressed about things like this, pray. It truly helps.
Peggy Dyer, 15Evergreen, Colorado

Constructing the temple seemed nearly impossible. The Saints were so poor that they could barely afford to care for their own families. The magnificent temple cost about $40,000–$60,000 to build, a great sum of money in the 1830s! There were very few experienced builders among them, and none of them had ever built something as enormous as a temple. Also, enemies outside of the Church vowed that they would stop construction on the temple. But the Saints knew that they had been commanded by God to build it and that He would help them: “Verily I say unto you, it is my will that you should build a house. If you keep my commandments you shall have power to build it.” (D&C 95:11.)
The Saints set to work. Men spent one day each week in the stone quarry or on the temple site, and some of them guarded the unfinished temple at night to protect it from mobs. Women spun cloth to make clothing for the workers, and they made carpets and curtains for the temple. Glass and fine china were crushed and mixed with the plaster so that when the sun struck the temple’s outside walls, they glittered. Everyone labored and sacrificed for two and a half years until the temple was finished.

A few months ago I received a package from one of the state prisons in Utah. I thought it was unusual, but I opened the package. Inside was a beautiful hand-knitted blanket with the full BYU Cougar logo in the middle. There was a handwritten note on top, and part of it read:

I am an inmate of the Utah State Prison. I am fifty-four years old, and in all my life I never was interested in watching any sports on TV. That was until 2009, when I was running channels and came across a BYU women’s soccer game just as someone did a flip throw. I stopped to watch to see what was going on, and I was hooked. To this day, the only sport I really watch is BYU women’s soccer.

There is something about the way they play. It is very hard to describe. They play with heart, for the love of the game, and just for fun and enjoyment. It is something that you cannot put into words.

I will never get to see a game in person. So please accept this blanket as a token of my appreciation. It is for the entire team.

This was such a kind gift and note that touched our team and reminded us that we are capable of reaching individuals who we would never have thought of. Our reach goes so far, whether in sports, music, dance, research, science, or education. In whatever we are involved with here at BYU, we can make a difference.