Gospel Story Finder

Let me share one other reality that is of great concern to me. I had a sobering experience in Jerusalem in 2016 at the Children’s Memorial, which is part of the World Holocaust Remembrance Center. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and I, together with two American Jewish leaders, laid a remembrance wreath. It is believed that more than one million Jewish children were killed during the Holocaust.18
As I experienced the museum, I was overcome with emotion. Standing outside to regain my composure, I reflected on the horror of the experience and suddenly realized that in the United States alone, there are as many abortions every two years as the number of Jewish children killed in the Holocaust during the Second World War.19
The Jewish children were killed because they were Jews, and there is no analogue to this in all history, but the intensity of my feeling was about the loss of children. Bringing children into the world is a sacred part of our Father in Heaven’s plan of happiness. We are so numbed and intimidated by the immensity of the practice of abortion that many of us have pushed it to the back of our minds and try to keep it out of our consciousness. Clearly the adversary is attacking the value of children on many levels.

A second significant event occurred a few years later when I was called to serve a mission to Peru. My grandfather, who was not religious but was the man I respected most, did not want me to go. Mine was a Chinese family, and my grandfather was its patriarch. In effect, the family was our religion, and obeying and honoring our elders was our moral code. For weeks my grandfather did not talk to me because of my intention to go on a mission. One week before I left, he offered me a present. He gave me the razor I used during my mission—a razor I still keep to this day. He was a loving man. In order to help him feel better about my mission, I told him I would do what I could to find his relatives living in Peru.
In the first three months of my mission, I met Guillermo “Willy” Hauyon, my grandfather’s nephew. I told Guillermo I had heard there was a Chinese poem in the family from which each generation took a word and incorporated it in their given names. To my surprise, he produced the poem and copied it for me. When I returned to Uruguay after my mission, I had my grandfather transcribe the poem in his own handwriting. Today it is a precious reminder of my grandfather and my heritage. The poem contains 48 Chinese characters and is used to mark generations; it has since proven invaluable in helping determine family relations.

Like the first dance of my eighth grade year. I was serving as the eighth-grade secretary. I was excited for the opportunity I had to have a voice in what went on at the school and for the chance I would have to reach out to other students around me. I was also sure that my new title would brighten my prospects at the school dances I so anxiously awaited. In my mind I pictured the line of boys that would spend the entire dance waiting for the opportunity to dance with me. Looking back, I’m grateful for the experience of returning home that day after dancing with no one. It kept me humble, and gave Hailey and me a good laugh.

I watch you, and I notice
the way you stand so tall,
the way you hold your head up high—
you’re not afraid at all!
The scriptures always in your hand—
you stand out from the rest.
And no matter what the weather is,
you’re in your Sunday best.
At Christmastime, you miss your home;
you cling to every letter.
I know you love your family,
but you love the Savior better.
From watching you, when I am big,
I know what I will do. …
I want to serve a mission,
for I love the Savior too!

Then gradually the thoughts of my ancestors who had walked this trail began to fill my heart. First it was Jared and Cornelia with their two-year-old son. I felt the chill in the air, but that chill was nothing compared to the freezing conditions Jared and his little family had experienced during their exodus. Cornelia died somewhere between Nauvoo and Salt Lake. I imagined Jared weeping as he picked up his son and continued on.
My heart began to swell with emotion; it felt as though Sarah had joined me. Jared and Cornelia with their little son were with me also. We walked together amid the light and shadow, past and present merging on this trail—this trail of hope, this trail of tears. In a way I can’t explain, they were with me and awakened in me our shared love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I realized that my testimony burns in me because it had burned in them—passed from generation to generation—each laying the foundation for the next. I wept with gratitude.
Soon my husband, who had been photographing elsewhere, caught up with me. I stood close to him as I told him of my experience. He, like those Nauvoo Saints, was the first in his family to believe the gospel. And he, like those who had walked this trail more than 150 years before, would not be the last to believe. His testimony and mine nurtured the testimonies that now burn in the hearts of our children, just as the testimonies of Jared and Cornelia and Sarah nurtured the testimonies of thousands of their descendants.

During a visit to the afflicted area prior to the distribution of the packets, Elder and Sister Johnston met a little boy named Cosmin. His house had been destroyed and he was living under a tarp.
When the Johnstons returned a while later with food, he and his family were nowhere to be found.
“We desperately wanted to find them,” said Elder Johnston. “We promised them we would return with help. We left the distribution to others and began scouring the faces in the crowd of refugees, hoping to find him and his father and mother.
“Near the end of the day, after most materials were distributed, we found them standing off a distance from everyone else, waiting patiently. They were a contrast to the majority who pushed and shoved their way to the front of the line. We were touched by their humility and gratitude. Little Cosmin soon brought us flowers and said, ‘Thank you.’”

When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.

Melody scratched her puppy behind the ears. He wagged his tail. “Just wait, Buddy,” Melody said. “Soon you’re going to know how to do tricks!”
“Time to go,” Mom said. Melody gave Buddy a quick hug goodbye and ran to their family’s van. With her favorite outfit on, Melody was ready for her second 4-H meeting. She couldn’t wait to learn all about growing a garden, painting ceramics, and sewing. But most of all, she was excited about the dog-training project.
For as long as she could remember, Melody had loved animals. She imagined for the hundredth time how great it would be to take Buddy on the dog course and teach him all sorts of tricks.
They arrived at the fire station where the meeting would be held. Melody listened closely to the announcements.
“Sewing will be this Saturday at my house,” the group leader explained. “Ceramics will be next Monday after school, and the dog project is this Sunday at 2:00 at my house.”
Melody’s heart sank. Sunday! Sundays were special days for church and family. It wasn’t a day for shopping or going to the movies. But what about dog training?
All the way home she stared silently out the window. At home she went straight to the backyard and began brushing Buddy’s fur. She didn’t want to talk with anybody.
Later that night Melody sat on the couch with tears filling her eyes. Why did the dog project have to be on Sunday? It wasn’t fair!
Mom sat down next to Melody on the couch and held her hand. “What do you want to do about the dog project?” Mom asked. Her parents had talked it over and decided to let Melody make her own choice.
Melody didn’t answer at first. She’d thought about the problem all day long. She kept trying to tell herself it would be OK to do the dog project. After all, it was scheduled after church. But every time she thought this, she felt kind of squirmy inside.
“I don’t know,” Melody said. “I know I want to train Buddy. But I also want to do what’s right.”
“Keep praying,” Mom said. “You’ll know what to decide.”
Mom gave her a kiss on the forehead and left the room.
Melody went to the backyard to brush Buddy’s fur some more. She said a silent prayer for help.
She looked into Buddy’s eyes. He would be so good at learning tricks—she just knew it! But she also knew that she didn’t feel happy inside about attending the project on Sunday. She knew how peaceful the Holy Ghost felt, and that wasn’t how she felt when she thought of doing the project.
Melody realized that was her answer. If she didn’t feel good about it, she wouldn’t do the dog project.
A warm feeling grew in Melody’s heart as she made her decision. Then she had an idea. She could probably find a book about dog training at the library! Probably a couple of books. Maybe they could even learn together as a family.
“Guess what, Buddy? You’re going to learn tricks after all!” Melody tossed a stick for him to fetch. He just looked at her with a goofy grin. He didn’t run after the stick even a little bit.
She grinned. “Don’t worry, Buddy. We’ll learn together.”

Interfaith Scotland collaborated with Edinburgh Women’s Interfaith Group to organise their annual summer trip. A diverse group of 45 women from various faith backgrounds recently embarked upon a journey to the Kagyu Samye Ling Monastery in Scotland, a renowned Tibetan Buddhist Centre known for its peaceful environment and spiritual teachings.

The women departed from Edinburgh by bus and travelled the winding roads and through the beautiful green countryside that surrounds the River Esk before arriving at the location. They were joined by women from Glasgow and Ayrshire.

Located in the Scottish Borders, Samye Ling offers a perfect setting for reflection and introspection. Founded in 1967, Kagyu Samye Ling was the first Tibetan monastery in the West and it has expanded over the decades to include not only an impressive shrine room, meditation rooms, butter lamps and prayer wheels, but also monastic quarters, a tearoom and shop. The attendees, some of whom had never visited a Buddhist monastery before, engaged in a range of activities to foster understanding, mindfulness and spiritual growth. The women shared lunch in the shining sun and enjoyed each other’s company before taking a tour of the monastery’s stunning grounds, vegetable and flower gardens.

The highlight of the trip for many was attending the Mahakala prayers inside the temple. Mahakala prayers are often chanted to invoke blessings, protection, and guidance. The temple gleamed with ornate furnishings, bright paintings and vivid hues of red, yellow and gold.

Throughout the trip, the women shared their personal spiritual journeys, exchanged insights on common values such as compassion and respect for all beings, and discussed the unique challenges they face within their own communities. These candid conversations transcended religious boundaries and highlighted the universal quest for inner peace and understanding. As the trip concluded, the women left with renewed inspiration to continue interfaith dialogue with one attendee summarising the day as: “A wonderful day in the company of interfaith friends that was both educational and peaceful.”

Steve and Anita Canfield are representative of Latter-day Saints throughout the world who have experienced for themselves the transformative blessings of giving to the Lord. As welfare and self-reliance missionaries, the Canfields were asked to provide aid at refugee camps and immigrant centers across Europe. In her professional life, Sister Canfield had been a world-class interior designer, contracted by wealthy clients to beautify their luxury homes. Suddenly she found herself thrust into a world that was the complete opposite, as she served among people who had lost nearly everything in terms of earthly possessions. In her words, she exchanged “marble walkways for dirt floors,” and in doing so she found an immeasurable degree of fulfillment, as she and her husband began to befriend—and soon to love and embrace—those who needed their care.
The Canfields observed, “We did not feel as though we had ‘given up’ anything to serve the Lord. Our desire was simply to ‘give to’ Him our time and energies to bless His children in whatever way He saw fit to use us. As we worked alongside our brothers and sisters, any outward appearances—any differences in backgrounds or belongings—dissolved for us, and we simply saw one another’s hearts. There is no degree of career success or material gains that could have equaled the way that these experiences, serving among the humblest of God’s children, enriched us.”

Let me relate a story to illustrate.
A certain man, well up on the ladder of success, had great prospects for a very bright future. Then one day at a businessmen’s luncheon he decided that social drinking would make him more popular and successful. He soon began looking forward to the cocktail hours, and then found they didn’t come often enough. Finally he became an alcoholic, lost his job, his wife, and his friends. Because of the wrong choice at a moment of decision, he had lost everything he once so hopefully and diligently set out to accomplish.

No deacon, teacher, or priest from our ward will ever forget the memorable visits we made to Clarkston, Utah, to the gravesite of Martin Harris, one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. As we surrounded the tall granite shaft which marks his grave, and as one of the quorum leaders read to us those penetrating words from “The Testimony of Three Witnesses,” found at the beginning of the Book of Mormon, we developed a love for that sacred record and for the truths found therein.

As the flight attendants began their usual safety instructions, I checked to make sure my son, Max, was secured in his infant carrier in the seat next to me on the airplane.
I reflected on the day Max was born a few months prior. When I held him for the first time in the hospital, I was determined to do everything in my power to keep him safe, teach him how to find happiness, and provide everything he would need to successfully navigate this life.
I’m sure most fathers experience these feelings. Mine were particularly poignant as I looked into his eyes and remembered the struggle of infertility that preceded his birth, with the physical, emotional, and spiritual toll that it took on me and my wife.
The flight attendants had just explained the way to use the overhead oxygen masks during an emergency, and when one of them reached our row, she had a look of absolute seriousness. She pointed right at me. “If the masks come down, you put yours on first before helping him,” she said, pointing at Max. For some reason, the emphasis with which she said the word first struck me like lightning.
Looking out the airplane window, I imagined the scene—oxygen masks deploying, doubting that I would feel comfortable wasting any time to help Max. Then the thought came to me of the words Jesus Christ spoke to Peter, whose only desire in that moment was to serve and protect the Savior: “When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32).
And it hit me: the best way I can help Max is to first help myself. I realized that if I needed to secure my own oxygen mask, it would only take a few seconds, but then I could fully and properly help Max. I thought for the remainder of the flight about the small and simple things—much more eternally important than oxygen masks—that I can do first that would put me in the best position to then help Max, to first become converted and to then strengthen others.
These following things only take a few minutes of my time but have made a major difference in strengthening me:
Kneeling in prayer helps me gain the proper focus to have an honest discussion with Father in Heaven.
Using a notebook or computer document to write down thoughts and insights has created a richer scripture study experience for me.
Pausing to ask, “What does that really mean?” or “What does that mean for me?” while worshipping in the temple or reviewing general conference talks has helped me receive important insight and understanding.
Writing down how I saw the Lord’s hand in my life at the end of each day has helped me see His influence more easily and feel closer to Him.1

We experienced a special day in our family on January 4, 1997. My brother organized a party honoring the 200th birthday of Gustavus Adolphus Perry. He was an important member of our family tree. He was baptized in 1832 and became the first of our family to embrace the gospel. The Perry family history records this remarkable event:
As a part of the birthday celebration, my brother spent a year searching for the descendants of Gustavus Adolphus Perry. We were amazed at the record he had on the table before us as we celebrated. He had found more than 10,000 descendants of this good man. The number overwhelmed me. Suddenly I realized the value of a good name. In seven to eight generations, his family had sufficient numbers to organize three stakes of Zion.

Joseph’s arms felt as heavy as the scythe he swung through the ripened grain. But within, the awful weight of waiting and wondering if the Lord were displeased with him had lifted. Joseph’s prayers had been answered! At the memory of the angel Moroni’s visit the night before, Joseph’s whole being was filled with joy. The dazzling splendor surrounding Moroni had been brighter than the first blinding rays of the sun gilding Joseph’s father and brothers mowing alongside him in the fields.
As they reached the end of a clean-cut fencerow, Joseph lagged behind. Light-headed from a night without sleep, he struggled against an overwhelming weariness. But nothing, he realized, can dim the glory of the message Moroni brought me. Only—and the thick fan of his eyelashes swept his cheeks—only I am so … tired. For just a moment he rested against his scythe.
Always the watchful big brother, Alvin was quick to observe Joseph’s unusual behavior. He glanced at him anxiously, but without interrupting his own measured stroke. Then his words spurred Joseph on. “If we slacken our hands, Joseph, we won’t finish our work.”
Determined as always to carry his load, Joseph pushed forward through his exhaustion. He cut a few more swaths of grain. Then an overpowering dizziness brought him to a swaying halt.
Father Smith stopped abruptly, letting the sheaf he was binding fall in disarray to the ground. His tone was concerned as he said, “Son, you’d best go back to the house and let your mother doctor you.”
The father watched Joseph make his way slowly toward the wormwood fence and patch of green surrounding their log home. Then he returned to the deft twist and tuck of the binder’s knot.
The sky reflected the sun’s high glare before Joseph retraced his steps and sought out his father. Father Smith finished up the sheaf he was binding, straightened out his lean, long frame, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a homespun sleeve. “Feeling better, Joseph?”
Joseph looked squarely at his father, and when he spoke there was a compelling urgency in his voice. “I have something to tell you, Father. I haven’t been home. I tried to climb over the fence by the apple tree, but I was so weak I fell helpless to the ground. I don’t know how long I lay there, but after a time I heard a voice that pierced my very center, calling, ‘Joseph, Joseph.’” For a moment Joseph seemed unable to continue. Then his voice deepened. “It was an angel surrounded by heavenly light—the same angel Moroni who appeared to me three times last night in my room.” Joseph’s face was luminous, but it was his eyes, blazing blue as the noonday sky, that most reflected the astonishing events he was about to share.
So there in the fields of waving grain, Joseph the son lifted his face to Joseph the father and unfolded all that had happened. The radiant light. The awe-inspiring message. Prophecy fulfilled and yet to come. Gold plates couched in a stone box buried in a nearby hill. Instructions. Warnings. All this thrice impressed and forever emblazoned on his mind and heart. Given yet once more and once more imprinted.
Father Smith listened intently, scarcely breathing. Every word Joseph spoke was carved almost as deeply on the father’s soul as on the son’s. He studied the earnest face of the lad who had once walked bravely on crutches.
Joseph’s gaze swept beyond their log home to the autumn hillside, the newly significant hill of Cumorah. “The angel said to meet him there,” he explained, pointing. “But first I was to come and tell you.”
Joseph had told it all. Now he waited, obedient, on his father, the tall, granite-firm yet gentle man he so loved and respected.
His father’s voice broke a little as he began to speak, but the words were sure and strong. “This is of God, Joseph. You must go and do as the angel commanded.” Father Smith’s fingers tightened on Joseph’s shoulders and a look of love and trust passed between them.
Without a backward glance, Joseph strode southeast toward the hill of Cumorah. He climbed the thickly wooded hill flaunting its autumn finery of scarlet and orange. Near the top he sped like a homing pigeon to the exact place Moroni had shown him in his vision. It seemed as familiar to him as his own dooryard.
With pounding heart, Joseph knelt among the tufted grass, for there lay the large rounded stone. It’s exactly like the one the angel Moroni showed me, he exulted, while his hands pushed the black dirt away from the stone. His eyes searched for a lever. Then he spied a hefty stick with a somewhat flattened end that he inserted under the stone’s edge. Exerting his strength he pried it up, revealing a box made of stones cemented together.
Joseph caught his breath as he saw the glitter of gold plates inside and a strange instrument called the Urim and Thummim and the breastplate. It was just as the angel had said! He was filled with a burning wonder as he looked at the curious markings on the ancient records. He had known they would be there because the angel had told him, but to actually witness them with his own eyes was a stunning and miraculous experience!
As Joseph reached in to lift out the plates, the angel Moroni appeared and reminded him that it was not yet time, nor would it be for four more years. However, he went on to reassure Joseph that in exactly one year he was to meet him here and receive further instructions, and that Joseph was to return each year until the time came to translate the record.
That was not all. As they talked there on the hillside, the heavens were opened to Joseph, and the glory of the Lord shone round about him and rested on him. While he stood gazing, enthralled, the angel said, “Look!” and Joseph beheld a vision of Satan and his followers. He was permitted to see the great contrast between the power of God and the power of Satan, the consequences of both obedience and disobedience to the commandments of God. This was shown him with such clarity and in such a striking manner that it would remain vivid in his memory until the end of his days. Forever after he would be anxious to keep the commandments of God.
Joseph walked away from the hill with a flaming determination to carry out the Lord’s great purposes, to obey implicitly every instruction given by the angel Moroni. And as he looked at the slowly darkening sky he thought, It’s not going to be easy.
After supper that evening Father Smith leaned toward Joseph and speaking gently said, “Can you tell all the family about it, son?”
Joseph looked into the eager, upturned faces and his heart swelled with gratitude. These were his dearest and best friends. They would stand by him with love and loyalty. For them Joseph once more rehearsed all he had told his father in the field that morning, of his finding the golden plates on the Hill Cumorah and of his visit with the angel Moroni.
The deep exultation that moved Joseph called forth an answering joy in each of his loved ones. Tears burned along the edge of Sam’s eyelids and Sophronia saw that many cheeks were wet as she wiped her own. They knew Joseph had spoken the truth without doubt or hesitation or holding back.
Like the rest, Alvin had sat spellbound at the sound of every word from his younger brother’s lips. But sensing that by now Joseph must be totally exhausted, Alvin laid his hand on Joseph’s arm. “Now, brother,” he suggested, “let’s go to bed so we can rise early in the morning and finish our work before sunset.” Alvin nodded in Lucy’s direction. “And if Mother will get our supper early tomorrow, we’ll have a fine long evening while you tell us more of the great things God has revealed to you.”
On the following evening the slanted rays of the setting sun pushed the boys to finish their nightly tasks; while inside Lucy and Sophronia moved skillfully about the big room, setting it to rights after supper.
It was just twilight when the cheery bustle ceased and the entire family—father, mother, and all the children from Alvin down to Baby Lucy—formed a circle around Joseph. It was to be the first of many such evenings.
All were hushed as Joseph began to speak. First he admonished them to keep his experiences within the family circle for the time being. As he went on to recall the astonishing events of the past two days, his eyes glowed with an intense light and his voice rang with sincerity. Even baby Lucy, cuddled on Hyrum’s lap, stared up at her brother Joseph in wide-eyed awe.
So clearly had Moroni shown Joseph what the golden records contained that he was able to describe many exciting and amusing details about the ancient people who had lived in America. The family listened, fascinated, as Joseph told about the strange clothes they wore, how they traveled from place to place, and the animals upon which they rode.
“Did they have horses then?” piped up Catherine. Joseph assured her that they did, and Catherine’s eyes sparkled as Joseph added that these long-ago people owned cows and sheep and even elephants. Joseph then pictured their great cities and the design of their buildings. He knew about their religion and how they worshipped, their forms of government, and how the Nephites and Lamanites fought in fierce battles.
Outside the moon hung high and inside the fire was only a flicker, yet no one wanted to leave the circle. They were all savoring the sweet happiness that warmed them through and through and spilled over to fill every corner of their little home.
Lucy surveyed her brood, gathering them in with one glance. These are my treasures, she mused tenderly, cherishing each one. Then her heart swelled with the thought, God is about to bring to light something to give us a more perfect knowledge of the plan of salvation and redemption of the human family.
And Joseph, her son, had been chosen by the Lord to bring it to pass! (To be continued.)

An interesting way to practice what is preached about etiquette was discovered by the youth of the Murray Third Ward in Utah. An evening’s lesson on social awareness was given to Laurels and Explorers. A week later a full-scale formal dinner was hosted by MIA leaders and the bishopric. In a lovely home a long table was covered with fine linen, and crystal, silverware, and complete china settings were laid. Guests came in their party best. Boys had called the girls on the telephone properly for the date. Boys attended to the girls’ needs and even gave their “orders” to the waiters (members of the bishopric!). At the end of the evening each was warmly appreciative, seeking the hosts out to express thanks. (An extra touch of niceness is a note of thanks the following day.)

It was such a successful event that now everyone is wondering what they can learn next that they can put into practice with as much fun.

Full-time missionaries study and learn so they can better understand the gospel. We can do the same. We can also pray for guidance about with whom we should share the gospel. One family invited the stake missionaries to teach them how to use the Book of Mormon more effectively as a missionary tool. They also talked together about how to fellowship friends. The more the family learned about missionary work, the more eager they became to share the gospel.

“We continue to pray that the temple will again fully open. The temple is a place where visitors and patrons come to feel peace and closeness to God,” said President Martin. “Even during this time of closure, we knew that people have missed coming to the temple, even to walk the grounds. We would see them come to the closed gates, spend a few minutes, and then leave.”

I just received my first issue of the New Era, a baptismal gift from dear friends. You see, I joined the Church just last November. This wonderful monthly is just what I need! So much is so new to me, and I’m both thrilled and humbled to learn from great leaders through the printed word. I’m in college, and a lot of what I’ve read is atheistic. Now at least I know one thing worth reading! What really fascinated me about the January issue were the articles on Mormon history. I’d love to know more! The story about Brad Cordery was also valuable inasmuch as I have cerebral palsy (balance only) and have crutches. Reading this story made me think twice about my own problems. As I’m just 21, I’m looking forward to a long, happy, and useful life in the Church. I’ve been blessed with terrific teachers and friends, and I just can’t be thankful enough!
Mary Jane WeberSan Jose, California

But the Bensons had always considered their children—Reed, Mark, Barbara (Mrs. Robert H. Walker), Beverly (Mrs. James M. Parker), Bonnie (Mrs. Lowell L. Madsen), and Beth (Mrs. David A. Burton)—to be far more valuable than prestige or material gain. In the early years of their marriage, Ezra and Flora Benson had met the expenses of a new baby by selling their only cow. In an increasingly materialistic age, President Benson urged parents to sacrifice their worldly pursuits to attend more carefully to the teaching and nurturing of their children.