Gospel Story Finder

One day in January 2010 my world was flipped upside down. My younger sister was diagnosed with cancer. I could not believe it. How was it possible? My sister was only 14 years old and very active. She was part of the school show choir. She loved softball and basketball. How could she have cancer?
Not too long after that fateful day, I found myself home alone. I felt completely overwhelmed and lost. My comfortable life had been shattered. Cancer is a scary thing, and I had no idea how to deal with it.
As tears coursed down my cheeks, I felt the need to pray for some form of comfort or peace.
Shortly after finishing my prayer I heard a knock on the door. Answering it, I found my Young Women leader standing on our porch. She took one look at my tear-stained face and asked what was wrong. More tears filled my eyes as I told her about Madey’s diagnosis.
When I finished she simply said, “You’re the reason why I’m here.” She then told me to get my shoes on and to come with her.
I spent the next couple of hours with her and her grandson eating ice cream and talking. I told her about all that had been going on and how lost I felt. We talked about cancer and the possible treatments. When she brought me home, I felt lighter and more hopeful than I had since learning that my sister had cancer.
Sadly, my sister eventually lost her battle with cancer. But my Young Women leader’s visit taught me a lot. Since that day I have come to recognize that I am never alone. Friends and family are there to assist, but more importantly, my Heavenly Father is always ready to listen to and help me. I am so grateful that He is there and that He answered my prayer that day, starting with a sensitive Young Women leader.

“I hope they call me on a mission when I have grown a foot or two …”
Jay was standing and singing to the congregation with the other Primary children. He liked to sing that song because when he was old enough, he wanted to go on a mission.
When the song was over, the children sat down, and it was brother Davis’s turn to speak. “I want to thank the children for their beautiful song,” he said. “It reminds me of the words of one of our prophets who said that each one of us should be a missionary, no matter how old we are.”
Jay didn’t listen to the rest of the talk very well. He was busy thinking about what Brother Davis had just said. If Brother Davis is right, I could be a missionary right now. I won’t have to wait until I’m older. But how can I be a missionary? he wondered.
On the way home from church with his family, Jay was still thinking about being a missionary. “Dad,” he asked, “how can each one of us be a missionary?”
“We can help other people to understand the gospel, and we can be good Latter-day Saints so that perhaps they will want to learn more about our Church,” Dad replied.
“Which people?” Jay wanted to know.
“People who don’t belong to our church.”
“I know lots of people like that. But it will take a long time to tell all of them.”
Dad laughed. “Yes, that would take a long time. Why don’t you choose one person who is special to you and try to help him?”
“Who?”
“Whom do you really care about?”
Jay thought for a moment. “I love you and Mom and my brothers and sisters. And I love Grandpa. He isn’t a member. I’m going to talk to him about the Church.”
Dad was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe you should, Jay. I’ve tried for a long time to interest him in the Church, but I haven’t had much success. Maybe you can reach him.”
The more Jay thought about telling his grandfather about the gospel, the more excited he became. Since Grandpa was coming to live with them soon, Jay knew he would have many opportunities to talk with him.
The day Mom and Dad went to get Grandpa was exciting. It seemed like forever until Dad drove the car back into the driveway. When he finally did, Jay ran out of the house with his brothers and sisters to hug Grandpa and welcome him. Grandpa seemed glad to see them, but he looked very tired.
“Careful, children. Grandpa isn’t completely well yet,” Mother cautioned. “You can talk to him later, when he’s resting on the couch.”
They all hurried to carry Grandpa’s things to the room prepared for him. There were suitcases and boxes and an old leather-covered trunk. When Jay asked about the trunk, Dad explained that people used to carry their clothes in trunks instead of suitcases but that not many people used trunks anymore.
It was fun having Grandpa living with the family. He couldn’t run and play hide-and-seek anymore, but he could still tell funny stories. And he always listened when anyone had a problem or a secret. Often at night before going to bed, Jay and one or two of the other children would sit on Grandpa’s trunk to listen to his stories. Sometimes they laughed so hard they almost fell off the trunk.
The best times for Jay, however, were when Grandpa took his daily walks. The doctor had said that slow walks would be good for Grandpa’s heart. Since Jay was the oldest and could help support Grandpa, it was his job to walk with him. Jay had Grandpa to himself then, and they talked about all kinds of things.
But there was one thing that Grandpa would not talk about, and that was religion. Jay learned that if he said anything about the Church, Grandpa would quickly change the subject. Each day Jay became a little more discouraged. Boy, what kind of a missionary am I? he thought. I can’t even get someone who loves me to listen to what I have to say. Then a grin started to curl the corners of Jay’s mouth. That’s it! he thought. Grandpa loves me.
The next Sunday when Jay’s Primary teacher asked for a volunteer to give a talk the following week, Jay said that he would do it. He knew just what he wanted to talk about—and whom he wanted to invite!
Jay worked hard on his talk, and he practiced saying it again and again. He was pleased that he had written it himself.
On Saturday when Jay and Grandpa were taking their walk, Jay said, “I’m going to give a talk, and I wrote it myself.”
“That’s fine, Jay,” Grandpa said. “I’m proud of you. When are you going to give it?”
“Tomorrow in church. Would you like to come and hear me?”
Grandpa didn’t answer right away, and for a while Jay thought Grandpa was going to change the subject the way he usually did. Then to his surprise Grandpa answered, “I guess so.”
Jay skipped ahead. He turned around and grinned at Grandpa. “Good. It will make me feel better to know that you’re there.”
When Jay stood up to give his talk on Sunday, he was scared. He looked at the back of the room where his parents sat. With them was Grandpa. He smiled at Grandpa, and Grandpa smiled back.
“I am thankful for many things,” Jay said. “I am thankful for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. I am thankful for my parents and for my grandpa who has come to live with us. I am thankful that I can live with them now, and I am especially thankful that it is possible for me to live with them forever.
“When I was little, the missionaries came to our house and taught us what Heavenly Father wanted us to do. My parents were baptized. Then our family went to Heavenly Father’s house, the temple, and we were promised that we would be together forever if we obeyed His commandments. That is called being sealed. When I grow up, I want to be a missionary so that I can help other families be together forever.”
When Jay went back to his chair, he saw that his parents were smiling at him—but Grandpa was staring at the floor.
After church Grandpa wasn’t there. Dad explained that Grandpa had asked to be taken home right after Jay’s talk. Jay felt a lump in his throat. Grandpa didn’t like my talk, he thought sadly.
When Jay got home, he went to Grandpa’s room. The door was closed, so he knocked.
“Come in,” said Grandpa.
Jay opened the door and stopped in surprise. Grandpa’s usually neat room was a terrible mess, and what was even more amazing was that Grandpa was sitting next to his trunk taking things out of it. Jay had never seen the trunk open before. Now he could see that it had been filled with things that were very old.
“Look,” said Grandpa as he held up a photograph. “This was taken when your father was little. And this is the necklace I gave your grandmother on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“Were all these things in the trunk?” asked Jay.
“Yes,” Grandpa answered, “but I haven’t looked at them since I put them here when your grandmother died. It hurt too much to look at them because I thought I would never see her again. I kept the hurt locked up inside of me just like I kept these things locked up in the trunk.”
“Why are you getting them out now?”
“It’s because of your talk, Jay, because of what you said about the promise in the temple. I never let anyone tell me about your church before, but now I think that maybe I ought to learn more about it. I’m sure your grandmother would want me to. Do you think your father would mind asking the missionaries to come and teach me?”
Jay hugged his grandfather. “I don’t think he’d mind at all!”

On Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. As we walked back to our car after laboring up a trail in the mountains, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell he was from Germany.
His countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. I spoke his language and understood his culture, having served a German-speaking mission. The Spirit prompted me to introduce the gospel to him. However, due to other people around us, our brief encounter was interrupted without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.
As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I was troubled while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. As we got out of our car, another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen earlier stepped out, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, This time I will do my duty.
We introduced ourselves and I learned he was a university student in a small city south of Dusseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my fond memories of Germany, and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared. I felt he was truly a newfound friend.
Upon my return to Salt Lake City, I wrote to the Germany-Dusseldorf Mission and asked President John F. Charles to send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion. I don’t believe my wife and I met this young man twice by coincidence.
But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time the still, small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind.
We must act when the Spirit speaks. When I did, the young man responded positively to my message. It wasn’t really my message. It was God’s, brought to my mind by the Spirit of the Lord. I was but an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

Several years ago while my wife and I were serving in Venezuela, our youngest son left the comfort of his high school to join with us. He did not complain, but it was obvious that he struggled as he went to this country where everything was new to him; but in an amazing turn of events, the experience went from one of trial to a huge blessing in his life. He accomplished this by changing his own attitude and developing a determination to succeed.

When we moved to Provo thirty years ago, I was in my twenties. Our oldest son was two, and our youngest son was just a few weeks old. I had been a member of the Church for less than ten years.
Shortly after arriving in Provo, I met Bertha. Bertha was in her sixties. I knew a little bit about Bertha. I knew she lived in our stake. I knew she was respected by those who knew her. I also knew that she was a leader and a woman of service. People sought her advice.
I remember attending a stake Relief Society function at which Bertha was one of the women on a panel that was answering questions and giving advice to those in attendance on a variety of topics. I noticed that Bertha was being asked for a lot of advice about raising children. I soon discovered why. She was the mother of thirteen children. I appreciated her responses to the questions. She seemed to have all the wisdom and experience that I lacked.
Another thing I knew about Bertha was that she seemed to like walking. Sometimes I would see her walking in the neighborhood. One morning while I was walking with my friend, she asked me if it would be okay if Bertha joined us occasionally on our walks. I told her that was fine. But privately, the thought of walking with Bertha intimidated me somewhat, mainly because I held her in such high esteem.
A few days later my friend invited Bertha to walk with us. Before Bertha met us for our walk that morning, my friend told me a couple of things about Bertha that she thought would be helpful to me. She told me that Bertha sometimes had a little difficulty hearing and that her shins sometimes bothered her—especially when walking uphill. I thought these things were good to know.
Our walking route that day began in the Tree Streets south of the Provo Temple. We headed toward the temple, which is a steady uphill walk. I don’t remember much of our conversation that day. I remember only the question I asked Bertha once we reached the top of the road by the temple and began our steady descent toward home.
Remembering that Bertha’s shins sometimes bothered her, I asked, “Bertha, how are your shins?”
There was a bit of an awkward pause, and then, with much earnestness, Bertha replied, “I’m working on them, and hopefully they are improving every day.”
I responded, “Oh, that’s good. Thankfully it’s all downhill from here.”
I was feeling pretty magnanimous about my expressed concern for Bertha. For a couple of minutes we walked along in a somewhat awkward silence.
Then my friend suddenly got a relieved look on her face and, turning to me, exclaimed, “You said shins, didn’t you?”
My first thought was, “Yes, of course I said shins.” Then it occurred to me that they had both thought I had asked Bertha how her sins were doing!
I was mortified! There I was, this inexperienced young mother, asking Bertha, this accomplished and wise woman, how her sins were doing! How impertinent I must have seemed, especially to have commented that it’s all downhill from here—as if implying that once you hit a certain age, it can only be downhill.
I really don’t know what Bertha thought of me. I do know that I was grateful that my friend clarified the misunderstanding that I had unintentionally caused.
That experience and many others like it have taught me the critical importance of effective communication.

An example of the small and simple things may be helpful. Dr. Truman G. Madsen, who passed away several years ago, was a beloved professor here at BYU. When he and Sister Ann Madsen were newlyweds, Truman was pursuing a PhD in philosophy at Harvard University. His young bride, trying to earn enough money to pay the bills, took a job at a local bank.

One evening she returned home from work exhausted. She found Truman reading the Doctrine and Covenants instead of studying for an important test he had the next morning.

“What?” she exclaimed. “Why aren’t you studying for your classes? Why should I be working to support you in your graduate studies if you are only going to study the scriptures?”

Truman responded by sitting Ann down and quietly explaining “that the more he studied philosophy, the more he needed to study the revelations of the Prophet Joseph Smith.” Truman Madsen’s counsel to students was, “Don’t study philosophy on an empty stomach.”

How thankful we all are that Brother Madsen was able to keep that balance. Not only did he graduate with his PhD and his testimony of the gospel, but he also dedicated his life to helping others learn to strike that same balance, to learn “by study and also by faith.” His dedication to small and simple things, such as consistently studying the scriptures, made a big difference in his life and in the lives of many others.

These brethren are not alone in their commitment to serve. I am reminded of a sister in Peru who has been called by her bishop to be a “special proxy” at the Lima Peru Temple. Her day begins at 3:00 A.M., and she begins her trek to the temple at 4:00 A.M. She has to take three different buses to get there. The cost of the bus takes more than one-third of her small monthly income. During a bus strike in Lima, she still came. Once she arrived in the back of a truck headed in the direction of the temple. What marvelous devotion to service!

Eleven-year-old Rebecca stared out the bus window but didn’t really see the houses passing by. The after-school bus commotion raged around her but didn’t interrupt her troubled thoughts.
If I don’t get an A on the final history report, I won’t get an A in history. That means no honor roll. It’s not fair. I’ve worked hard all year long to get on the honor roll, and now, all because of this stupid assignment, I might not make it this last quarter. History, yuck!
The bus lurched to a stop but couldn’t jolt Rebecca’s thoughts from her history assignment. I have only a week to write about someone who made a contribution to the United States’ growth and progress. It would be simple if Mrs. Langley would just let us write about someone famous, but no, it has to be about some unfamous dead person. Dead person—of course! The Woman of the Dead! Rebecca smiled as she worked out a plan.
In a few minutes she was hurrying up the front walk of a small brick house. “The Woman of the Dead,” she chuckled as she rang the door bell. That’s what the kids called her aunt because it seemed like all she ever talked about was “the dead.” Aunt Hattie spent all her time doing family history for herself and for others.
Aunt Hattie’s wrinkled face lit up with a big smile when she saw Rebecca at the door. “Come in, come in,” she urged. As always, stray curls were poking up here and there. A pencil nestled above one ear. Bifocals were perched on her long straight nose. Her eyes danced as she led Rebecca into the living room. “Sit down and tell me what brings you here.”
“Aunt Hattie, I got an awesome history assignment today that I thought you might be able to help me with.”
As she explained her assignment, Aunt Hattie listened, smiled, and nodded. “Sounds like quite a task. Do you have any ideas whom you would like to write about?”
“None. I sort of hoped that you could help me find someone.”
“How about someone in our own family?”
“We don’t have anyone in our family that did anything great or important—do we?” Rebecca asked sheepishly, realizing that she knew very little about her own family’s history.
“Well, let’s see what we can find.” Aunt Hattie chuckled again as she moved quickly to her computer. “Now, the first thing we need to do is pull up your pedigree chart.”
“Pedigree chart?” asked Rebecca, sitting next to Aunt Hattie and looking at the computer screen.
“A pedigree chart is a chart of your family tree. But it starts with you, instead of your ancestors, and goes backward with names, dates of births, marriages, and deaths. See, here’s your mother’s chart.” Aunt Hattie pointed to the screen.
Rebecca saw “Mary Helen Farmer Hughes” on the screen with other names and dates.
“Do you have everyone’s pedigree chart right here in your house?”
Aunt Hattie laughed. “Almost everyone who’s ever taken my family history class—which is about everyone in town!—has been good enough to share what he’s found with me. Now let’s see whom we have that might be of interest for your report. How far back do you want to go?”
“Way back, I guess. Was there anyone in our family here before the Revolutionary War?”
“Your earliest ancestor that we have record of came to America about 1750 from Germany—”
“Germany! I didn’t know that!” Rebecca peered closer at the screen. “This is like a time machine!” she exclaimed as Aunt Hattie scrolled down the computer screen.
“Wait, I think I passed a good one for you,” Aunt Hattie said, scrolling back up the screen and pointing to a name. “Gideon Burdick was General George Washington’s drummer boy in the Revolutionary War.”
“My great-great-whatever-grandfather, knew George Washington?”
“Yes, but there’s more to Gideon Burdick’s story. And his daughter, Rebecca Burdick Winters, has an interesting story of her own. In fact, I believe that you were named after your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Rebecca Burdick Winters.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Well now, I’d hate to give you any wrong information, especially since this is a school assignment. But if you’re free Saturday morning, maybe we can take a trip to the Family History Library right here in Salt Lake City to do some research,” Aunt Hattie suggested.
“Wow, I can’t believe it—I actually have some neat ancestors!”
On Saturday morning Rebecca and Aunt Hattie went to the Family History Library across the street from Temple Square.
“Where do we start?” Rebecca asked, feeling a bit overwhelmed with all the rows of equipment and books in the first room they entered.
“Each person whom the library has information about is listed by name in the Library Catalog here,” Aunt Hattie said, walking to a microfiche file. “You look in it for the person’s last name.”
“I want to start with Gideon Burdick,” Rebecca told her. “Here he is. ‘Gideon Burdick, born 6 November 1762, Died 5 April 1846,’” she read. “Look! It says that there’s a book called The Descendants of Robert Burdick of Rhode Island. Gideon must be in this book, right?”
Aunt Hattie smiled and nodded. “And since Rebecca Burdick Winters is Gideon’s daughter, she should be in the book too.”
It only took a few minutes to find the book. It felt strange but wonderful to be holding part of her very own family’s history in her hands. She quickly found a place to sit down and work.
“I’ll let you see what you can find,” said Aunt Hattie. “I have some work to do too. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Suddenly many-great-grandfather Gideon became a real person to Rebecca—someone she liked. But although the page on Gideon was interesting, it didn’t say anything about his being General Washington’s drummer boy.
There has to be more, Rebecca thought, looking up from the book. She couldn’t see Aunt Hattie to ask for more help. I’ll just go on to Rebecca Burdick Winters till Aunt Hattie comes back.
“Find anything interesting?” Aunt Hattie asked, sitting down across from Rebecca.
“I can’t believe it. I had no idea that I was named for such a strong and courageous woman. I wish I could find out more about her.”
“And Gideon? Did you find out all you need to know about him?”
“No. The book didn’t say anything about his being a drummer boy. Where can I find out about that?” asked Rebecca.
“Goodness! It sounds as if you are getting hooked on the dead,” chuckled Aunt Hattie. “It seems to me that there was a newspaper article on Rebecca. Let’s see what we can find under Salt Lake City in the Locality File.”
She showed Rebecca the Locality File and explained how to use it. “I’ll leave you to your search now. Here are some quarters to photocopy anything you might want. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Did you find enough material to write your report?” asked Aunt Hattie, sitting down as Rebecca finished the article.
Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, but not on Gideon. I’m going to make photocopies of all this information and write on Rebecca Burdick Winters. I think she contributed a lot to the United States’ growth and progress.”
Rebecca was hard at work on her paper that night when Aunt Hattie rushed in. “I have some more information for you. I’ve been writing to a cousin in Ogden, Utah, to see if she had any family history to share—and by the way, now that you’re hooked yourself, on family history, the first thing you should do is write to your older relatives on both sides of your family for whatever help they can give you. Anyway, Cousin Myrna sent me a copy of a June 30, 1975, Ogden Standard Examiner article that tells about Gideon Burdick being the drummer boy, and even mentions his daughter Rebecca. Here.”
“Wow! Thanks, Aunt Hattie!” Rebecca could hardly wait to turn her paper in.
Mrs. Langley was so pleased with Rebecca’s report that she read it to the class. “Pioneers such as Rebecca Burdick Winters,” she told them, “were among the courageous people who helped the country expand in the West.”
Rebecca could hardly wait to show her A+ honor-roll paper to Aunt Hattie.

An adventurous three-year-old, one day I wandered out to visit my father in the fields. We lived on a farm in Kaysville, Utah, and I walked about a quarter mile down the road past our neighbor’s house and then headed out to find Dad.
I didn’t know it, but my dad was already headed home another way. So there I was, out in the middle of the field, surrounded by oats taller than I was. I had no idea how to get home.
I don’t remember being scared. I don’t even remember trying to find my way home. I just played in the fields until I got tired, then lay down and went to sleep. I didn’t know that I was lost at all.
Of course, my parents were not so calm. They began frantically searching for me, and when they couldn’t find me, they called others for help. The whole town of Kaysville spent the entire night looking for me. People drained the ponds and tramped down the crops and waded through the ditches. I had no idea I’d created such a stir!
The next morning, Ben Webster, a friend of my father’s, visited my folks. “I’ll find your boy,” he promised them. Then he headed out into the fields and walked right to where I was! I remember him picking me up and carrying me home to my mother. I learned at that young age that the Savior cares about little children—even when you’re three years old and not sticking very close to home!
The Savior knows each one of you individually. He loves you and watches over you. He knows where you are and what you need. There is no doubt in my mind that He knew where I was in that field. He also knew Ben Webster and how to guide him to where I was.
Children, know that your Heavenly Father loves you. So does Jesus Christ. They are there for you, and They will take care of you. Just as They sent Ben Webster out in the field to find a lost three-year-old, They will send you the help you need!

One sweltering July day, I helped my brother-in-law build a retaining wall. This project eventually pitted me against the roots of a blossoming cherry tree that was in the way.
“Easy,” I thought.
I gathered the appropriate tools and dug around the roots to make room to work. Then I grabbed a saw and, without a second thought, went to work cutting the roots. The smaller roots cut easily, but when I moved to the larger roots, I quickly realized that they weren’t going to be as easy. One root in particular was difficult.
Gritting my teeth, I was determined to cut through that root. Sweat rolled down my neck from the glaring sun overhead as I squeezed the saw tighter. The saw vibrated until my entire body shook. I could feel my right hand—the one squeezing the saw trigger—start to burn with pain. I ignored the pain and kept holding on.
Finally, the saw cut through the root. I released the trigger and felt the sweet pleasure of victory. As I removed my glove, however, I noticed a small piece of skin had been torn from my hand.
As I thought about this experience, I realized that holding on to the saw was, in a way, like holding fast to the iron rod. We are told to hold fast to the iron rod as we move through life. But just because we hold fast to it doesn’t mean we won’t experience moments of pain. I injured my hand as I clung to the saw. In a similar way, we will pass through trials and tribulations as we continually hold fast to the iron rod.
Heavenly Father knew that the journey back to Him would be fraught with peril. That’s why He has given us the scriptures and words of the prophets to help us. As we hold on to these things through our trials and tribulations in mortality, we will one day return to His presence.
When we return to Him, we will be able to look down at our hands, which held fast to the iron rod, sometimes in spite of pain or difficulty. And we will know that with the help of Heavenly Father and through the atoning power of Jesus Christ, we held on tightly, no matter what obstacles we encountered.

Parley P. Pratt records a time when he was much troubled because of a severe censure from a Church leader that he felt was unjustified. He came to the Prophet and laid it on him. One of the Prophet’s gifts was that he was a powerful listener—and although that phrase might seem like a contradiction in terms, it is not. There are listeners who are weak as water, not listening at all, not hearing, not interpreting from the center self. Joseph listened powerfully. And to Elder Pratt he now listened sympathetically. Then he blessed him, encouraged him, and added, “Walk such things under your feet.” Meaning, of course, “It’s trivial by comparison with your calling—don’t let it wear you down.” Elder Pratt recorded: “I was comforted, encouraged, filled with new life.”47

Walking through town one June afternoon on my way to a business meeting, I was prompted to stop and look inside a tavern’s open door. All I could see was a long bar and a row of stools. I turned and left. I had no interest in being in such a place; in fact, I did not want to be in such a place. But as I continued walking up the street, I had the strongest feeling that I should return and investigate further.
Curious, I turned around, walked back to the tavern, and looked through the doorway. “This is rather a foolish thing to do,” I thought, especially when I saw only the bartender behind the bar. So I continued in my walk. But as I waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, I felt an even stronger prompting to go back to the tavern. I went back.
The tavern appeared empty. Even the bartender wasn’t in the room. I walked toward the rear of the room. Then I noticed the figure of a man in the corner, seated on a stool and hunched over the glass in front of him. Something seemed familiar about the ragged, unshaven face.
I moved closer, and the memory of someone from my past came to me. The man was about the right size, small and rather frail. Could it be Deuce? (His real name was Dwayne.) I hadn’t seen Deuce for almost eighteen years. But how could he be in this condition? “Deuce, Deuce is that you?” I asked. The man look around vaguely but didn’t respond. “Deuce, what are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s you!”
But it was him. We had been close friends in our teenage years.
Deuce and his twin brother, Ace, had had a good relationship with their parents but had received little guidance from them. Their father had been a hard-working barber who had cared for his lovable but alcoholic wife.
Deuce had had polio as a child, which left him with a bad limp and impaired use of one arm. A couple of serious accidents as a teenager left him having to use a cane. But these handicaps only seemed to concentrate his ability to paint. He was a talented oil painter and took his work very seriously. His paintings were vivid and life-like; I still remember his painting of a tiger that seemed to leap from the canvas.
I lost contact with Deuce when I went into the navy for several years. I had heard that Ace had also joined the navy and was subsequently reported missing.
“Huh! Who’s that?” Deuce responded sluggishly.
“It’s Richard, your old friend!”
His eyes lit with vague recognition. He looked as if he might cry. He was obviously in bad shape physically, and it appeared that he hadn’t been eating regularly. I finally convinced him that I was real and coaxed him off the bar stool. He could barely walk, even with the walker he now used. I took him to a nearby restaurant, where I got him to eat a little food. As he began to talk more sensibly, I discovered that he had no money and was sharing a room in a cheap hotel.
“Look, Deuce, I’m really late for an important appointment, but I want to spend some time with you,” I said, before taking him to his hotel with instructions to bathe and shave. Later, I picked up a change of clothes for him at a men’s store and returned to help him dress. We drove home, and I introduced him to my wife, Verna.
I related the story of our reunion during dinner, and then told Verna of my earlier friendship and boyhood experiences with Deuce and his family.
By then, he was quite clear in his thinking and was able to tell the harrowing story of how he had been driven to his present condition.
He described the shock of losing his twin brother. Several years later, his mother had died of alcoholism, and then his father had been killed in an automobile accident. Working as a commercial artist, he had tried to forget his problems by drinking. He eventually lost his job and lived on a small disability pension. This downward trend in his life had continued for many years. He had given up all hope and had been in total despair when I found him.
After I took him back to his hotel, Verna and I talked long into the night about his situation and possible solutions. He was obviously incapable of helping himself. “We can’t leave him where he is!” Verna said.
“But what can we do?” I asked.
“If nothing else, we’ll just have to bring him here,” she replied.
The next day at work, I couldn’t get Deuce off of my mind. In the afternoon I went searching for him. He was confused by my invitation, but agreed to come and live with my family. We gathered up his few possessions and went home.
It was a big decision for my family—not because we didn’t have room, but because having a strange man around the house was awkward at first, even if he was harmless. He was, in fact, quite pathetic. He had to use his walker to get around, and because his bedroom was in the basement, getting up and down the stairs several times a day was a tremendous challenge.
My family soon accepted Deuce. Good food, rest, companionship, and love helped him recover. The children loved him because he was so gentle and understanding. But the effects of the years of alcoholism were hard to overcome. His physical impairments and extreme loss of normal movement made recovery difficult and total recovery impossible. For the first month, he was content to just recuperate. At times, he tried to help the children with chores or Verna with household tasks, but he was too shaky and unstable.
Deuce often wanted alcohol, but Verna and I firmly refused him any, and there was no way he could get it himself. Frequently, he would break out in a cold sweat and shake. But with no additional alcohol to reinforce what was already in his system, he eventually gained control of himself.
With his recovery came restlessness, and Deuce decided that he should try to again develop his former talent. I built him a special heavy-duty easel that would not only hold the canvas but also help steady him, since he was still very shaky.
It had been years since he had painted, and he was disappointed and frustrated with his first attempts. But eventually he was able to paint a sea scene for Verna to show his gratitude. Many paintings followed, and I helped him sell a few of them. His former talent, however, never fully returned.
He soon became very much a part of our family. And although he had never been religious, he started coming to church with us. Verna and I had joined the Church after we were married, and Deuce was impressed with the obvious changes he had seen in me. He met with the missionaries and was baptized. The doctrines of the Church excited him, especially the idea of being resurrected to a whole and fit body, and the promise of being with his family again.
Although he found his new faith stimulating and enjoyed his new experiences, he felt concerned about being a burden on our family. He knew, however, that his limited capabilities restricted him from ever being independent again.
About this time, a second miraculous reunion occurred. On one of my monthly business trips to Portland, Oregon, approximately four hundred kilometers from our home in Seattle, Washington, I checked into a hotel I had never used before. To my amazement, the luggage attendant that assisted me with my bags was Deuce’s long-lost twin brother, whom we had believed to be dead.
Ace was overjoyed to see an old friend and to learn the whereabouts of his twin brother. A reunion was quickly arranged, and Ace, divorced and living alone, welcomed the opportunity to provide a home for Deuce.
My family kept close contact with “Uncle Deuce” until his death, prematurely brought on by his frailties and years of drinking. But he had found the gospel and had made many wholesome and eternal friendships.

During the first semester of my law school training, I learned a legal principle that helped me better understand how our actions affect our ability to receive the blessings Heavenly Father desires for us.

My contracts class was taught by a distinguished professor who was very kind and gracious—when he was not in the classroom. In class, he was a master at teaching using the Socratic method—a method of teaching that involves asking probing questions in a way intended to develop critical thinking. My professor was so skilled that he seemed like the lawyers described by Amulek, who “by their cunning devices . . . might catch them in their words.” [11]

For most class periods we were assigned to read three legal decisions or cases. During class, a student was called upon to summarize the facts of the case and then describe the legal principles of contract law that the cases established. The unfortunate student was then subject to the professor’s probing, twisting questions that followed. It was almost always a very humbling experience. The first time I was called upon, the cases dealt with a principle of contract law known as unilateral acceptance. As a result, I have never forgotten that principle.

When I was in the first grade, one of my classmates kept asking if she could copy off of my paper. I said, “Stop trying to copy off my paper. I am trying to work.” Later that day, I told my mom what happened. I said, “She was trying to cheat, and that is the same as lying.” During the school year, I tried to help my classmate with her work because I knew she wouldn’t learn anything by cheating. It made me feel good knowing I had done the right thing.

Saint John, New Brunswick—
Growing up in a ward with relatively few young people my age was difficult. Although our stake was quite large, it was spread over such an enormous geographical area that developing meaningful and regular association with other young people in the gospel was nearly impossible.
Life was a constant challenge with all of my friends being nonmembers, and many of them not attending any church at all. When I was 14, I began to challenge the authority around me. To my parents’ credit, they remained firm and steadfast, and never wavered in their guidance or discipline. Despite my constant refusing of alcohol, drugs, and all the other activities which had become regular weekend occurrences among my friends, I remained confused and frustrated.
That year, as always, I took part in our stake temple trip. Living in the Saint John New Brunswick Stake meant an 18-hour journey to the temple in Toronto. Three buses filled with young people began the trip, and I spent the entire week with the youth of our stake. The week was full of excitement and enjoyment. We went shopping, we visited the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York, and had a wonderful testimony meeting on the temple grounds. However, it was during my work in the temple that I would witness one of the most incredible experiences in my life.
I had long been aware that people experience gifts of the Spirit in different ways. For many, it is the familiar still, small voice. For others, a warm sensation or a chill running up their spine. It was after having served as a proxy for a set of baptisms and confirmations that I realized my own ability to interpret the Spirit.
I was sitting quietly looking on as my friends entered and exited the font. I was overcome with a feeling of peace and warmth when suddenly I looked up and was amazed at what I beheld. I watched as the room in its entirety and all its contents began to radiate an aura of light. It was an incredibly brilliant, golden white, and it encompassed everything.
Suddenly I realized I was privileged to have been worthy to enter the temple that day. All the confusion and frustration I had felt because of the challenge of living the gospel vanished. I knew that I was party to a higher realm of existence, one of indescribable beauty and wonder.
I know without a doubt that we all have personal access to divine guidance. Living the gospel standards assures that we are all ready and able to receive the delicate intuitions that are necessary for our progression.
The strength of the Holy Ghost is more than just a tool for helping us determine right or wrong. It flows through us and gives us the power to make positive changes in the world around us.

I’d like to give you an experience I had some years ago when I was president of the branch in Edmonton. A couple called me early one Sunday morning and said, “We must see you, President Tanner.” The boy had wanted to go on a mission, and they had planned to be married in the temple on his return. They had been planning and thinking about it for some time.
They came with tears in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts, and they told me of the experience they had had Saturday night. The girl said: “I received a letter from my father just last week. He said he was worried about me, reminded me who I am, and told me to guard my virtue. But we didn’t think this temptation would ever overcome us.” Then she added, “See what I have done to myself, my parents, and my family.”
The young man said: “And I am responsible, and not worthy now to go on a mission.”
This example should help us to understand and appreciate how important it is that we keep ourselves morally clean.

When Mary Anne and I served in the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, we had a missionary who was an orphan boy. He had no family. The Lord assigned him to be Elder Hawkins’ trainer. I don’t think he was the best trainer, but Elder Hawkins was the best companion for an orphan boy who had become one of the Lord’s missionaries. Elder Hawkins’ parents adopted this missionary and wrote to him during his mission and have continued to write to him for the past fifteen years. This orphan has become part of Elder Hawkins’ family for all these years! This orphan boy, because of Elder Hawkins and his family, has been loved and cared for and is now happily married, employed, and active in the gospel of Jesus Christ. We all can help change little orphan boys!

My beloved brothers and sisters, each time I enjoy a fresh, vine-ripened tomato or eat a juicy peach right off the tree, my thoughts go back 60 years to when my father owned a small peach orchard in Holladay, Utah. He kept beehives there to pollinate the peach blossoms that would eventually grow into very large, delicious peaches.
Father loved his gentle honeybees and marveled at the way thousands of them working together transformed the nectar gathered from his peach blossoms into sweet, golden honey—one of nature’s most beneficial foods. In fact, nutritionists tell us it is one of the foods that includes all the substances—enzymes, vitamins, minerals, and water—necessary to sustain life.
My father always tried to involve me in his work with his hives, but I was very happy to let him tend to his bees. However, since those days, I have learned more about the highly organized beehive—a colony of about 60,000 bees.
Honeybees are driven to pollinate, gather nectar, and condense the nectar into honey. It is their magnificent obsession imprinted into their genetic makeup by our Creator. It is estimated that to produce just one pound (0.45 kg) of honey, the average hive of 20,000 to 60,000 bees must collectively visit millions of flowers and travel the equivalent of two times around the world. Over its short lifetime of just a few weeks to four months, a single honeybee’s contribution of honey to its hive is a mere one-twelfth of one teaspoon.
Though seemingly insignificant when compared to the total, each bee’s one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey is vital to the life of the hive. The bees depend on each other. Work that would be overwhelming for a few bees to do becomes lighter because all of the bees faithfully do their part.
The beehive has always been an important symbol in our Church history. We learn in the Book of Mormon that the Jaredites carried honeybees with them (see Ether 2:3) when they journeyed to the Americas thousands of years ago. Brigham Young chose the beehive as a symbol to encourage and inspire the cooperative energy necessary among the pioneers to transform the barren desert wasteland surrounding the Great Salt Lake into the fertile valleys we have today. We are the beneficiaries of their collective vision and industry.
The beehive symbol is found in both the interiors and exteriors of many of our temples. This podium where I stand is made from the wood of a walnut tree grown in President Gordon B. Hinckley’s backyard and is adorned with carved beehive images.
All of this symbolism attests to one fact: great things are brought about and burdens are lightened through the efforts of many hands “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (D&C 58:27). Imagine what the millions of Latter-day Saints could accomplish in the world if we functioned like a beehive in our focused, concentrated commitment to the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.
The Savior taught that the first and great commandment is:
“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. …
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
“On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets” (Matthew 22:37, 39–40).
The Savior’s words are simple, yet their meaning is profound and deeply significant. We are to love God and to love and care for our neighbors as ourselves. Imagine what good we can do in the world if we all join together, united as followers of Christ, anxiously and busily responding to the needs of others and serving those around us—our families, our friends, our neighbors, our fellow citizens.
As the Epistle of James notes, service is the very definition of pure religion (see James 1:27).
We read of the service Church members provide around the world and especially the humanitarian service given in times of crisis—fires and floods and hurricanes and tornadoes. These much-needed and much-appreciated emergency responses should certainly continue as a way of bearing one another’s burdens. But what about our everyday lives? What would be the cumulative effect of millions of small, compassionate acts performed daily by us because of our heartfelt Christian love for others? Over time this would have a transformative effect upon all of our Heavenly Father’s children through the extension of His love to them through us. Our troubled world needs this love of Christ today more than ever, and it will need it even more in the years ahead.
These simple, daily acts of service may not seem like much in and of themselves, but when considered collectively they become just like the one-twelfth teaspoon of honey contributed by a single bee to the hive. There is power in our love for God and for His children, and when that love is tangibly manifest in millions of acts of Christian kindness, it will sweeten and nourish the world with the life-sustaining nectar of faith, hope, and charity.
What do we need to do to become like the dedicated honeybees and have that dedication become part of our nature? Many of us are dutiful in attending our Church meetings. We work hard in our callings and especially on Sundays. That is surely to be commended. But are our minds and our hearts just as anxiously engaged in good things during the rest of the week? Do we just go through the motions, or are we truly converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ? How do we take the seed of faith that has been nurtured in our minds and plant it deep in the fertile soil of our souls? How do we make the mighty change of heart that Alma says is essential for our eternal happiness and peace? (see Alma 5:12–21).
Remember, honey contains all of the substances necessary to sustain mortal life. And the doctrine and gospel of Christ is the only way to obtain eternal life. Only when our testimony transcends what is in our mind and burrows deep into our heart will our motivation to love and to serve become like unto the Savior’s. It is then, and only then, that we become deeply converted disciples of Christ empowered by the Spirit to reach the hearts of our fellowmen.
When our hearts are no longer set upon the things of this world, we will no longer aspire to the honors of men or seek only to gratify our pride (see D&C 121:35–37). Rather, we take on the Christlike qualities that Jesus taught:
We are gentle and meek and long-suffering (see D&C 121:41).
We are kind, without hypocrisy or guile (see D&C 121:42).
We feel charity toward all men (see D&C 121:45).
Our thoughts are always virtuous (see D&C 121:45).
We no longer desire to do evil (see Mosiah 5:2).
The Holy Ghost is our constant companion, and the doctrines of the priesthood distill upon our souls as the dews from heaven (see D&C 121:45–46).
Now, brothers and sisters, I’m not encouraging religious zealotry or fanaticism. Quite the contrary! I’m simply suggesting that we take the next logical step in our complete conversion to the gospel of Christ by assimilating its doctrines deep within our hearts and our souls so we will act and live consistently—and with integrity—what we profess to believe.
This integrity simplifies our lives and amplifies our sensitivities to the Spirit and to the needs of others. It brings joy into our lives and peace to our souls—the kind of joy and peace that comes to us as we repent of our sins and follow the Savior by keeping His commandments.
How do we make this change? How do we ingrain this love of Christ into our hearts? There is one simple daily practice that can make a difference for every member of the Church, including you boys and girls, you young men and you young women, you single adults, and you fathers and mothers.
That simple practice is: In your morning prayer each new day, ask Heavenly Father to guide you to recognize an opportunity to serve one of His precious children. Then go throughout the day with your heart full of faith and love, looking for someone to help. Stay focused, just like the honeybees focus on the flowers from which to gather nectar and pollen. If you do this, your spiritual sensitivities will be enlarged and you will discover opportunities to serve that you never before realized were possible.
President Thomas S. Monson has taught that in many instances Heavenly Father answers another person’s prayers through us—through you and me—through our kind words and deeds, through our simple acts of service and love.
And President Spencer W. Kimball said: “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs. Therefore, it is vital that we serve each other” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Spencer W. Kimball [2006], 82).
I know that if you do this—at home, at school, at work, and at church—the Spirit will guide you, and you will be able to discern those in need of a particular service that only you may be able to give. You will be prompted by the Spirit and magnificently motivated to help pollinate the world with the pure love of Christ and His gospel.
And remember, like the little honeybee’s one-twelfth teaspoon of honey provided to the hive, if we multiply our efforts by tens of thousands, even millions of prayerful efforts to share God’s love for His children through Christian service, there will be a compounding effect of good that will bring the Light of Christ to this ever-darkening world. Bound together, we will bring love and compassion to our own family and to the lonely, the poor, the broken, and to those of our Heavenly Father’s children who are searching for truth and peace.
It is my humble prayer, brothers and sisters, that we will ask in our daily prayers for the inspiration to find someone for whom we can provide some meaningful service, including the service of sharing the gospel truths and our testimonies. At the end of each day, may we be able to say yes to the questions: “Have I done any good in the world today? Have I helped anyone in need?” (Hymns, no. 223).
This is God’s work. May we be about it as faithfully as the dedicated little honeybees go about theirs, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Before leaving Nauvoo in the winter of 1846, President Brigham Young had a dream in which he saw an angel standing on a cone-shaped hill somewhere in the West pointing to a valley below. When he entered the Salt Lake Valley some 18 months later, he saw just above the location where we are now gathered the same hillside prominence he had seen in vision.
As has often been told from this pulpit, Brother Brigham led a handful of leaders to the summit of that hill and proclaimed it Ensign Peak, a name filled with religious meaning for these modern Israelites. Twenty-five hundred years earlier the prophet Isaiah had declared that in the last days “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains,” and there “he shall set up an ensign for the nations.”1
Seeing their moment in history as partial fulfillment of that prophecy, the Brethren wished to fly a banner of some kind to make the idea of “an ensign for the nations” literal. Elder Heber C. Kimball produced a yellow bandana. Brother Brigham tied it to a walking stick carried by Elder Willard Richards and then planted the makeshift flag, declaring the valley of the Great Salt Lake and the mountains surrounding it as that prophesied place from which the word of the Lord would go forth in the latter days.

I cannot promise what success will come, since every person is free to choose how he or she responds to a servant of God. But the deacon you speak to for the Lord will remember you came to him. I know of one boy, now a man still far away from Church activity, whom a deacon was sent to find, and he told his grandfather of that visit 20 years earlier. And it seemed to have no effect, and yet he even named the deacon who came. The grandfather asked me to find and thank the deacon who was called to invite, to exhort, and to teach. It had been only one day in the life of a boy, but a grandfather and the Lord remember the words the boy was inspired to speak and the boy’s name.