Gospel Story Finder

My sister, Tami, is an example of one who is creating a cycle of caring. She doesn't give up on those who are often rejected by others. She volunteers most of her waking hours helping inmates in county jails and in state and federal prisons. My sister is making a difference in the lives of many women and men who have been lifted out of their spiritual and emotional poverty and are now in positions to serve others. One inmate she helped rescue from a constant cycle of incarceration is Davida Martinez. My sister shares this story:

Davida didn't have many positive examples in her life as a child. Neglected and repeatedly abused as a child, Davida grew up in a family where drugs and addictions were promoted more than attending school. After 14 different arrests and time behind bars for drug-related crimes, Davida decided her children and grandchildren deserved a chance at living outside of our nation's jails and prisons. Now, clean for more than two years, Davida is leading the charge to empower incarcerated women. She travels from Compton, California to Wasatch County, Utah where she volunteers her time with incarcerated women, teaching them the tools she has used to strengthen her new life and the emerging success of her three sons and four grandchildren. In the face of temptation on an hourly basis, Davida remains stalwart in her mission to free incarcerated mothers and return them--clean--to live with their children.

Davida still lives in the urban war zone. Just a few weeks ago cops were called to her trailer park for another neighborhood incident of lawlessness. She holds steady, however, becoming more and more the ray of hope for the community. As a result of her stand for sobriety, the youngsters in the neighborhood are hopping the fence and attending community college rather than stealing DVD players. Her friends are coming over to her house to help write letters of encouragement to inmates, not to share their needles. The mail she receives is about hope and change rather than where the next drug deal will go down.

By all accounts, Davida Martinez has proven that change can and does happen. She is a ray of hope for the 2.3 men, women and children locked up in America today. With more than 80 percent of these individuals behind bars for illegal drug use and sales, Davida's ongoing sobriety speaks to the heart of the inmates.

With 90 percent of all inmates returning to their communities at some point, Davida's success stands as a beacon through the long, dark night. Davida is changing the system from the inside out.

Because of Davida's part in this cycle of caring, other inmates are gaining the knowledge, confidence, and skills necessary to live lives of service. Although incarcerated, these inmates are already giving to others. The women at the Wasatch County Jail recently held a fundraiser where they sold their handiwork to raise money for providing additional services for the inmates. They also help lift others by writing to inmates in other facilities, and they share their stories, poetry, and artwork to inspire others. The inmates' ongoing commitment to serving others gives new meaning to the verse "When saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?"[11]

President Nelson promised that as we use the correct name of the Church, “we will have the knowledge and power of God” to spread the gospel. Teresa inspired me with her story about what happened when a friend at work asked her about the Church. Following President Nelson’s counsel, Teresa began by sharing the Church’s full name.

“He was interested in the Church,” she told me. “He investigated it for several months and then, miraculously, he was baptized by my son, the bishop. I felt so happy that day, and my family too. The promises are true.”

A few weeks after our son was born, my wife and I were invited to meet with a campus stake president. As we met with him, he asked me a question and as I started to give the response, I
instantly knew the answer I was giving was not coming from me, but through me. I quickly confirmed this fact when I saw the look on my wife’s face. I remember the feeling I had at that moment. I was able to be an instrument which the Spirit was able to shine through. This was the beginning of a great opportunity as we were both extended a call to serve in one of the YSA wards on campus. Serving in the YSA ward helped me trim my lamp and add oil to my reserves. Along with the blessings I received, I also witnessed how the Lord helps those who are stuck and not progressing become freed from the burdens that are holding them back.

A man who grew up in the Church, served as a full-time missionary, and married a lovely woman was surprised when some of his siblings began speaking critically of the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. After a time they left the Church and tried to persuade him to follow. As often happens in such cases, they bombarded him with essays, podcasts, and videos produced by critics, most of whom were themselves disaffected former members of the Church. His siblings mocked his faith, telling him he was gullible and misled. He didn’t have answers for all their assertions, and his faith began to waver under the relentless opposition. He wondered if he should stop attending church. He talked with his wife. He talked with people he trusted. He prayed. As he meditated in this troubled state of mind, he recalled occasions when he had felt the Holy Spirit and had received a witness of truth by the Spirit. He concluded, “If I am honest with myself, I must admit that the Spirit has touched me more than once and the testimony of the Spirit is real.” He has a renewed sense of happiness and peace that is shared by his wife and children.

There are many today who harbor in the deep recesses of their hearts a canker, a hurt, a feeling of resentment, a dislike, or in some cases even a hate because of unpleasant experiences with past and present associations. Some have been taken advantage of in a business sense. Others have had their feelings hurt by neighbors, or relatives, or friends. A few have been lied to or had a trust of long standing betrayed. Some children, young and now grown, have been offended by harsh or dictatorial parents. Husbands and wives may have deep schisms between them caused by criticism and a resulting resentment. The list of sad experiences goes on and on—yes, it is too long. To those of you who have been nursing the wounds of hurt feelings from the past, even from the little things, I would like to tell an experience which happened some time ago.
For much of our lives, we lived in central Arizona. Some years ago a group of teenagers from the local high school went on an all-day picnic into the desert on the outskirts of Phoenix. As some of you know, the desert foliage is rather sparse—mostly mesquite, catclaw, and palo verde trees, with a few cactus scattered here and there. In the heat of the summer, where there are thickets of this desert growth, you may also find rattlesnakes as unwelcome residents. These young people were picnicking and playing, and during their frolicking, one of the girls was bitten on the ankle by a rattlesnake. As is the case with such a bite, the rattler’s fangs released venom almost immediately into her bloodstream.
This very moment was a time of critical decision. They could immediately begin to extract the poison from her leg, or they could search out the snake and destroy it. Their decision made, the girl and her young friends pursued the snake. It slipped quickly into the undergrowth and avoided them for fifteen or twenty minutes. Finally, they found it, and rocks and stones soon avenged the infliction.
Then they remembered: their companion had been bitten! They became aware of her discomfort, as by now the venom had had time to move from the surface of the skin deep into the tissues of her foot and leg. Within another thirty minutes they were at the emergency room of the hospital. By then, the venom was well into its work of destruction.
A couple of days later I was informed of the incident and was asked by some young members of the Church to visit their friend in the hospital. As I entered her room, I saw a pathetic sight. Her foot and leg were elevated—swollen almost beyond recognition. The tissue in her limb had been destroyed by the poison, and a few days later it was found her leg would have to be amputated below the knee.
It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. How much better it would have been if, after the young woman had been bitten, there had been an extraction of the venom from the leg in a process known to all desert dwellers.

There is no evidence that anyone in that small gathering at Hiram, Ohio, on the 1st day of November, 1831, beard any voice, saw any light, felt within his soul the impact of the same ideas as were dictated by the Prophet to his clerk as revelation. It is not surprising then that some still doubted that the various writings presented to them and the message then delivered were revelations from the Almighty. Some of the revelations bore so patently the form of expression of the Prophet that William E. McLellin challenged the Prophet openly, charging that Joseph had written some of the so-called revelations entirely out of his own mind.

McLellin’s challenge, together with the feeling that others might be similarly skeptical, caused the Prophet to turn again to the Lord for aid. Whether he prayed vocally or otherwise does not appear in the record, but the result was another revelation:
“And now I, the Lord, give unto you a testimony of the truth of these commandments which are lying before you.
“Your eyes have been upon my servant Joseph Smith, Jun., and his language you have known, and his imperfections you have known; and you have sought in your hearts knowledge that you might express beyond his language; this you also know.
“Now, seek ye out of the Book of Commandments, even the least that is among them, and appoint him that is the most wise among you;
“Or, if there be any among you that shall make one like unto it, then ye are justified in saying that ye do not know that they are true;
“But if ye cannot make one like unto it, ye are under condemnation if ye do not bear record that they are true.
“For ye know that there is no unrighteousness in them, and that which is righteous cometh down from above, from the Father of lights.” (D&C 67:4–9.)
The above challenge calls for a unique test of revelation applicable to any age. It is a challenge to all thinking men—it is simplicity itself. It reflects the so oft-repeated introduction to God’s word, “Let us reason together, that ye may understand.” (D&C 50:10.)

McLellin, perhaps under the urging of others, accepted the challenge. He retired from the conference and, in the solitude of his room, attempted to write that which might sound like a revelation from the Lord. On November 2 he appeared again in the conference and with tears in his eyes begged the forgiveness of the Prophet, of his brethren, and of the Lord. He could not write a revelation. Try as he might, he could not write that which would sound as if it were a revelation from the Lord. Everyone who puts the matter to the test must come to the same conclusion. The uninspired man can only write those thoughts presently in his mind; and when he has put them in writing, he finds that they are but a rehash of ideas long known to mankind. The writings may have literary or educational value—but if nothing new is revealed, they are not revelation. On the other hand, if writings enrich the world with ideas and information not previously known, then by the same test, they are revelation, and, the newly found truth should be accepted and followed.

The experience and testimony of McLellin had a profound effect upon the little gathering at Hiram. One after another arose and bore testimony concerning God’s dealings with the Prophet Joseph. Following these testimonies, the conference authorized the publication of the revelations as the Book of Commandments, and appointed Oliver Cowdery to go to Independence, Missouri, to supervise the publication.

During World Ward II my husband was a young 18-year-old sailor in the U.S. Navy. He was stationed as a signalman on an attack troop transport ship in the South Pacific. His post was 75 feet above the water line. As a signalman during war time he learned a lot about the value of a strong ship, about the importance of manning your post, knowing the signals, having constant communication with command headquarters, and certainly the power of prayer.
He tells of a very dark, stormy night when security and safety for everyone on board was of major concern. There could be no light outside the ship—not even the light of a match—that could attract the enemy, and give away their location. That night, horrendous waves were pounding against the side of the ship, causing it to list at a 45-degree angle, almost enough to capsize the ship. In the turbulence of this storm, Heber, on the top deck, lost his footing and went sliding on his back toward the outer edge of the ship. Holding both arms high in the air and with a fervent prayer in his heart, he hoped to save himself by catching the two iron chains surrounding the deck before being swept overboard. At that moment the ship reversed its pitch and he started sliding in the other direction and fortunately, was able to regain his footing.

An apostle of the Lord made me a promise. “The Lord God will not leave you alone, nor will he be in debt. This you can count on.”
Those were the comforting words of Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve as he spoke at funeral services for my young husband. The “compensation” he spoke of was beyond my comprehension, and the thought remained in my memory for years. I could not see the end from the beginning.
That we are not alone, however, and that a loving Father in Heaven hears our prayers was more tangible. Our five children, ages four through sixteen, understood this. Their father, whose career had been in broadcasting, had often taught that their voices and thoughts are audible to the Lord, that they could reach the Lord through prayer if their lives were tuned in to the right frequency. Little David, the youngest, prayed at his grandmother’s knee on that first lonely night, “Please bless my daddy, so he will be well when I get there.”
We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Also, the Church in the Washington D.C. area was strong and growing fast. Members from adults to grade-school children felt a strong sense of identity with the Church. The opportunity to identify oneself as a Latter-day Saint promoted awareness of doctrine and practices and, through commitment to covenants, helped build strong testimonies of the gospel.
There was a feeling of missionary excitement. Our neighborhood is filled with beautiful churches of various Christian denominations. In the months and years after we returned to our home, school friends who were members of those churches invited our children to speak to their youth groups about Mormonism, and the interest and questions of the young people and their religious leaders challenged our children to expand their knowledge and test their faith. Many close friendships and several conversions resulted.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.
There was little time for grief that first year. The awesome responsibilities of my new role as sole parent were overwhelming. Ralph had been very much in charge, and I relied heavily on his judgment and leadership. Attempting to establish my authority was of prime importance. The children thought they were very funny when they made birthday and Mother’s Day cards depicting me in a general’s uniform. However, I knew my authority was finally recognized when I overheard one small child say to another, “What are Mother and Daddy going to do when they get together again, now that Mother’s the boss?”
But there was a special presence in our home. Father was considered to be out of reach but not out of touch. I realized this one day when teen-aged Alison said, “Mother, I can always get out of your range, but I can’t get out of Daddy’s.” This was a positive moment that reminded me of Elder Evans’ promise.
Our youngest child insists that he never felt fatherless. His departed father was always a real person to him, and he intuitively understood the eternal nature of the family unit long before he learned about the covenants and promises that can ensure its endurance. This awareness also translated into a desire on the part of our children to prove themselves so as not to disappoint the father they had come to idealize. As for me, I was determined to succeed in my stewardship. I could not fail my eternal partner or my Eternal Father. Our purpose bound us even closer together as a family as we shared our trials and successes.
Temple marriage was a subject of special interest. It was an anchor to which we could hold and a prize that all would one day attain. Our primary motivation was that we might all serve the Lord’s purposes so as to be reunited as a family once again.
A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.
When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

As a new member of the Quorum of the Twelve in 1963, I met my colleagues for the first time in the fourth-floor room of the Salt Lake Temple where the Presidency and the Twelve assembled. We were having the sacrament that day, and, as we were preparing to receive it, President McKay said to other members of the First Presidency and to the Quorum of the Twelve, “Before we partake of the bread and water, I would like to invite our newest member, Brother Monson, to instruct the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve on the atoning sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ. We will hear from you now, Brother Monson.” I can tell you, that was a heart-stopper for me.

At the conclusion of the meeting, we went to the lunchroom, where we were eating in the area reserved for the First Presidency and the Twelve. President McKay was making conversation with me and said, “Brother Monson, do you believe that William Shakespeare really wrote the sonnets attributed to him?”

"Yes," I replied, "I do, President McKay."

He responded, "Wonderful! So do I; so do I."

In the moment of silence that followed, I thought to myself, "I hope he moves away from Shakespeare; I’m a business major."

However, he turned to me and said, "Brother Monson, do you read Shakespeare?"

I responded, "Occasionally."

"Fine," he said. "What is your favorite work of Shakespeare?"

I thought quickly and replied, "Henry the Eighth."

He was unrelenting. "Which is your favorite passage?" he asked.

I had another heart-stopping moment right there. Then I thought of Cardinal Wolsey, that man who served his king but had neglected God. Shorn of all his power, he lamented: Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. [William Shakespeare, King Henry the Eighth, act 3, scene 2, lines 455–57]

President McKay smiled. “Oh, I love that passage too,” he said. He then changed the subject, for which I shall be ­eternally grateful. President David O. McKay was a giant among men—truly a prophet of God. I pay tribute to him and honor his name.

“Mom, hey, Mom!” Devin’s voice floated in through the open kitchen window as she finished crimping the pie crust. A little breeze followed his voice, ruffling the white curtains and carrying a sharp smell, like rain. Instinctively she glanced toward the mountains, and yes, there were gray clouds gathering.
The screen on the back door banged shut, and she heard hesitating footsteps. “In the kitchen, dear,” she called, wiping her hands on a towel. The clump of boots sounded nearer, and she glanced up to see him framed in the doorway, temporarily blocking out most of the light.
“My goodness,” she said, with just enough tease in her voice, “if those shoulders grow any more you’ll have to go through sideways!” and then saved him the embarrassment of having to reply to such a typically motherly statement by handing him the mixing bowl and spoon. She waited with cocked head and inquiring eyebrows while he sampled the filling.
“ ’Sall right,” he said casually, but she knew from the glint in his eye that it was really good.
“It’s for the Jeffersons,” she explained, “for this afternoon, after the funeral. But I made one for us, too.”
“You’d better take ’em both over,” he said wryly. “They’ve got a regular army of relatives swarming around the house.”
“They have?”
“Yeah. I was over that way just now.” His voice was slightly muffled, coming from behind the refrigerator door. She heard the clink of milk bottles. “On my way back from Jess Willard’s.”
Jess Willard’s. She was alert now but cautious. Don’t say anything, she told herself. Just wait.
“Y’know, Mom, he’s willing to knock off another two hundred on that Chevy.”
Here we go again, she thought. But not this morning. I’m not up to this on a busy Saturday morning.
“That car is really a bargain now.” His words came in a rush, tumbling together in his eagerness to win her over. “Just a little time and effort and it’d be worth twice what he’s asking. I can do the transmission work myself and …”
“Devin!”
There was silence in the kitchen. I don’t want to sound like this, she thought, forcing back the irritation clutching at her stomach. Make it light: joke! she told herself.
“This is the Voice of Doom speaking,” she said, imitating a telephone recording. “You can’t afford Jess Willard’s fancy motorcar. There’s no way you can put together that much money—and your folks can’t give it to you, either.”
He rinsed the glass and slid it into the dish drainer.
“I told him I’d take it.” His voice was so quiet—and so final.
“What?!” There wasn’t time to control the astonishment.
“Bill Whipple was there this morning. He said he was going to buy the car as soon as he could sell his pickup. Oh, Mom, what would Bill Whipple do with a car like that?”
“And how would Devin Edwards pay for a car like that?” she demanded.
“With the fund,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
“Your missionary fund?”
Unreal, went her brain, unreal, unreal. He didn’t really say that—not Devin, not the boy who picked strawberries all summer when he turned 12 and put every penny, minus tithing, into the fund.
“It would just be a loan, Mom. I’d pay it back.”
“Wait a minute.” She fluttered her hands in front of her closed eyes, trying to think, reaching for control. “You’ll be 19 in less than a year. You couldn’t …”
“Who says I have to leave the exact minute I turn 19?” he retorted, a hard, angry edge to his voice.
She could say nothing. The silence stretched as she stood at the wooden chopping block, stunned and still. Gradually her hands swam into focus. She was looking down and felt faint surprise to see flour and little bits of dough clinging to her fingers. Then she became aware of the receding footsteps and the slam of the back door.
“Bobby … Lisa! It’s time to leave!” she called. Then she stood, somewhat nervous, studying her reflection in the glass panes of the ponderous grandfather clock which had always stood in the entryway. Ten forty-five according to the filigree hands: the funeral was to begin at eleven. Bad enough that Bob is out of town, she thought, and now to appear without Devin either! But there had been no sign of him since he had slammed through the back door an hour ago.
“Here I am, Mom.” Lisa’s face appeared suddenly in the glittering glass, and her mother turned to give her a quick hug.
“You look lovely, dear,” she said softly. “Thanks,” replied Lisa, patting her hair into place and smoothing down the full skirt of her new blue dress. “I’ll wait out in front.”
“Bobby … please come now!” she called, putting a little more insistence into her voice. It was going to be all right. She had felt it so strongly at the conclusion of her prayer half an hour earlier. Somehow Devin would see—would get his values straight again. The funeral. She had decided the funeral would do it. Devin would be sitting hunched forward on the bench, and one of the speakers would look him right in the eye and say just the perfect thing. And now Devin might not be there to hear it.
Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, Mom,” he puffed as he came down toward her, taking the steps two at a time, “couldn’t find my tie. Where’s Devin?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply, trying to keep it even, trying not to let the distress show through. But Bobby sensed it anyway.
“Maybe he’s already gone over to the church,” he suggested.
“In his boots and levis?”
“I guess not. Wanna wait for him?”
“No,” she sighed. “I left him a note.” She plucked two umbrellas from the stand near the clock. “Here, you’d better take this,” she said, offering him one. “It looks like a storm.”
The downpour had eased to a steady drench by the time Devin vaulted over the hedge and made a dash for the back door. When he strode into the kitchen, his wet T-shirt was plastered against his back. He walked over to the fridge and removed the note from the two flat magnets holding it against the door. It read: “10:40 A.M. Dear Devin: We are leaving for the Jepperson funeral, which starts at 11:00. Please change quickly and meet us at the church. We’ll sit at the back and save you a seat. Love, Mom.”
He glanced at the clock in the middle of the stove: 12:30. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket. A few quick strides to his room, and he was back in the kitchen again in a dry T-shirt, rifling the fridge. He arrived at the table with an armload of milk, bread, mayonnaise, ham and cheese, and became aware of the two pies sitting in plastic-wrapped silence in the center of the table, waiting to be delivered. His gaze kept returning to them as he ate a quick lunch. When he had finished and cleared away the clutter, he fished the keys to his dad’s truck out of his pocket, picked up a pie in each hand, and headed through the kitchen door into what was now a mere drizzle.
He drove in silence, letting the slip-slap of the windshield wipers keep time with his thoughts, which were so deep he almost missed the Jepperson turnoff. He parked the truck in the side yard and, carefully balancing the pies, made his way up the wooden stairs to the old screen porch, where he expertly flipped open the screen door with the toe of his boot. It was just a few steps to the back kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Devin nudged it open with his shoulder, stepped into the dimly lit room, and deftly deposited the pies on the counter near the sink. Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he was just in the act of stepping back out when a low, growling voice came from the interior of the darkened house: “Who’s there?!”
Startled, he swallowed hard and called, “Devin Edwards. Just leaving some pies for after the funeral.”
“Devin Edwards, is it?” came the voice. “Come on in here a minute, Devin Edwards.”
He made his way through the gray rooms with the ease of someone who’d been through them a hundred times or more, and as he came through the archway into the front room, a light flickered on. Carl Jepperson was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders in the big leather chair by the window.
“Why aren’t you at the funeral?” blurted Devin, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Don’t believe in ’em, son,” said Mr. Jepperson slowly, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “I can mourn my father better sitting here, in his chair, in his house, than I can over at the church with all those fancy flowers and crowds of people.”
“Uh … I was planning to go to the funeral,” explained Devin quickly, “but I was over at the Willard’s, and by the time …”
“Oh yes,” Carl Jepperson interrupted, with an impatient wave of his hand, “I hear you’re going to buy Jesse’s red Chevy. My boy’d sure like to have it.” He turned to look through the window as lightning flashed briefly across the sky and then continued, almost to himself. “There’s a mighty high price on that car. ’Course, if some people’d pay their bills …” He shifted his weight in the chair suddenly and looked straight at Devin.
“Your dad doesn’t have the money for that last load of lumber he took from me on credit. But he’s got plenty for hot rods, eh?”
Devin slid damp palms across his jeans and cleared his throat. “You know my dad’s short on cash right now. I’ve … uh … sort of decided to borrow the money from my missionary fund.”
“Borrow?” repeated Mr. Jepperson, and then barked a short, ironic laugh. “That’s the whole fund, boy, the whole thing. Spend is the word you’re looking for.” And then, before Devin could reply, a crafty look came into his eyes and he inquired, “What did your father say about all this?”
“Dad’s up at the construction site in Twin Lakes. He won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“So your Dad’s gonna have quite a little surprise,” mused Carl Jepperson, a bitter smile curling his lips. “I sure would like to see his face.”
Wheels crunched on the gravel driveway in front of the house, and headlights suddenly illuminated the rain-streaked windows. Devin’s feet took him to the front door almost of their own accord.
“Looks like somebody’s back from the funeral,” he commented, opening the door and peering through the rain. “I’ve got to be going now, anyway.”
He stepped out quickly, not looking back, but the growly voice followed him onto the porch: “Tell your dad I’ll be over to see him next Tuesday.”
He took the three steps leading down from the porch in a single jump, wincing slightly as the cold rain hit his shoulders, and then dodged quickly around to the side of the house where the old truck stood with rainwater streaming across its battered hood.
Wrenching the door open, he climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed down the driveway at a faster speed than was really safe. Soon he heard the steady hum of pavement under the tires as the road smoothed out, and then his fingers absently kept time with the steady pulse of the wipers as his thoughts went deeper and deeper.
“Lisa,” she called, “it’s your turn to set the table.” There was no response. The house was quiet for a change, and even the soft drippings from the rainspouts had gradually faded as the storm had passed. “Lisa!” she called again, and heard a faint rustling from the front room. A moment later Lisa appeared, book in hand, rubbing her eyes and stumbling slightly.
“Were you asleep, dear?” she asked.
“I was reading by the fire,” explained Lisa, “and it was so warm and comfortable …” She yawned and stretched languidly, her arms reaching high, and then abruptly dropped the book on the table with a loud slap that seemed to shatter the air. “Do you want the lace cloth or the gold one?” Lisa inquired over her shoulder, already heading into the dining room.
“The gold one, please,” she called as the door swung shut. Saturday dinner was the big meal of the week in the Edwards household. A tradition, she thought, handed down from my own childhood. I’m glad Mother refused to cook on Sundays, her mind continued. There were always such wonderful leftovers from the Saturday night dinners.
“Flowers,” she said softly under her breath, “for a special centerpiece.” And then an idea blossomed suddenly in her mind. Suppose I get the gold jeweler’s scale from the front room and put one of Bobby’s matchbox cars in one side and a picture of Jesus in the other. She paused to visualize the effect: fantastic for her Relief Society lesson; disastrous for Devin. The feeling of sad futility began to settle slowly into her soul again, but she shook it off and headed resolutely out into the backyard to see what flowers could still be gleaned for the dinner table.
The air was wonderful outside. The rain had stopped, but its fresh fragrance lingered. Leaves and branches were jeweled in liquid crystal. How beautiful! she marveled, lifting her head and drawing the quiet twilight scene into her soul.
She moved gracefully among the trees and hedges, choosing daisies and lilac branches. Her hands were nearly full when the pickup’s noisy rattle cut through the air. She turned to watch, screened by the shrubbery, as the old truck pulled up in the driveway and Devin swung out almost immediately. By the time she had walked over to the truck, he had lowered the tailgate and was struggling to lift an old but unfamiliar dirt bike to the ground.
“Whose is that?” she asked in surprise.
“Mine,” he grinned, enjoying her amazement. “But it used to be Bill Whipple’s. ’Course, he won’t be needing it, now that he’s gonna be driving Jess Willard’s ‘fancy motorcar.’”
“But …”
“So he sold it to me for 250 dollars.”
“But Devin, you don’t have …”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of work on his new car, that is,” he added. His head was down as he moved around the bike, wiping off drops of water which had beaded up on the tarnished chrome. “The transmission’s got to be completely redone, and it needs new points, and Bill wants me to …”
“Oh, Devin,” she said, relief washing over her in a tremendous wave.
He looked up at her and, for a brief moment, comprehended her emotion. She felt the old, familiar closeness there, stronger than ever. Then he ducked his head again, taking hold of the handlebars and pushing the bike slowly toward the garage.
“Hey, Mom,” he said casually, “did you notice that the storm’s over?”

It was almost Halloween. Each day on their way to school, Toby, Janie, Beth, Davy, and Ben passed Mr. Greevey’s farm. Just beyond the cabbages and the rows of tall corn they would stop. Here big green pumpkin leaves covered the ground like a rumpled blanket. Nestled among them—some still streaked with green—were dozens and dozens of pumpkins. There were big ones and small ones, fat ones and tall ones. Each one was just right for a jack-o’-lantern.
Every morning Toby looked to see if frost had touched the pumpkin leaves. When it did, Mr. Greevey would let each child choose a pumpkin for his very own. Then Mr. Greevey would haul the rest of the colorful vegetables to market.
“I’m going to pick a tall one this year,” Toby said.
“I want a little fat one,” said Janie.
“I want one this big,” Beth said, making a circle with her arms. “After Halloween, Mother will make it into pumpkin pies.”
“Mmmmm, pies!” Davy sighed.
Ben didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking at the pumpkins.
One morning when their breath hung like little puffs of chimney smoke on the chilly air, the children stopped again at the pumpkin patch. It had happened! The pumpkin leaves were shriveled and black on the ropy vines. They ran all the way to school to tell the other children.
When school let out that afternoon, Toby, Beth, Janie, Davy, and Ben hurried back to the pumpkin patch. Mr. Greevey would be waiting there to call out, “Tell all the children to come and choose their pumpkins tomorrow!”
But when they reached the patch, not one of the pumpkins had been picked, and Mr. Greevey was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Toby said.
“Yes, maybe tomorrow,” the others agreed hopefully.
However, Mr. Greevey wasn’t there the next day or the next or the one after that.
“Halloween’s almost here,” said Davy.
“Do you think Mr. Greevey’s forgotten?” asked Janie with a worried frown.
“Mr. Greevey grows the pumpkins especially for Halloween,” said Beth. “Why would he forget?”
“Let’s go find out,” said Toby.
“Who’s going to knock on the door?” Davy whispered when they reached the house.
“I will,” Toby said, marching up onto the porch. He knew it wasn’t polite to ask for things, but Halloween was getting awfully close.
Mrs. Greevey opened the door. “Why, children, how nice to see you,” she said.
“We came—” Toby began.
“The pumpkins are ripe!” Davy blurted out.
“It’s almost Halloween,” Janie said shyly.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Greevey exclaimed. “So it is. I’ve been so busy taking care of Mr. Greevey that I hadn’t noticed.” She smiled. “And of course all of you want to choose your jack-o’-lanterns.”
They nodded silently.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it by yourselves this year. Mr. Greevey is much too sick to come to the patch.”
“Will he be better soon?” Toby asked.
Mrs. Greevey nodded. “In a week or two he’ll be just fine. Tell the other children to come and choose their jack-o’-lanterns too.”
“We will. Thank you,” said Toby.
The five children raced each other to the pumpkin patch.
“Choosing a pumpkin isn’t much fun without Mr. Greevey,” Janie said. She stepped carefully over the stiff, prickly vines. “He always helps me find just the right one.”
“Who will take the rest of the pumpkins to the market?” Davy asked, stopping to examine a fat round one.
They all stopped and looked at each other.
“Could we take them to the market for Mr. Greevey?” Toby asked.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” cried Janie. “Mr. Greevey has always been so nice to us. It’ll be fun to do something nice for him.”
“How can we get the pumpkins there?” asked Beth. “None of us is old enough to drive Mr. Greevey’s truck.”
“I know how we can do it,” Ben said.
They all turned to look at him. Ben never spoke unless he had something important to say. “We can haul them in my dad’s hay wagon. I know how to drive the horses. I’m sure Dad will let us use it.”
“Hurray!” Toby exclaimed. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We can get some of the kids at school to help.”
Early the next morning the children were at the pumpkin patch. “Do you think we should choose our pumpkins now?” Janie asked.
“Mr. Greevey will be disappointed if we don’t,” said Toby.
Everyone picked the pumpkin he liked best and set it in a row along the fence. Then they started to work.
“The big ones are too heavy to carry,” Beth said.
“You have to roll them,” Toby explained, turning a big pumpkin on its side. He carefully rolled it to where Ben and a bigger boy were loading the wagon.
The load of pumpkins grew higher. At last only the biggest pumpkin was left in the patch.
“We’ll never get that one on the wagon,” said Davy.
“Mr. Greevey usually saves the very biggest pumpkin for its seeds anyway,” Toby said. “Let’s leave it here until we come back.”
Everyone climbed aboard the wagon. Some sat on top of the pumpkins. Others wiggled down between them.
“Giddap!” Ben called. The big draft horses strained against the harness as the wagon turned out onto the highway. Soon horns began to blow. Toby looked back at the long line of cars.
A patrol car passed the wagon and stopped. “You’ll have to get this wagon off the highway,” the officer told them. “You’re blocking traffic.”
“But we’re taking these pumpkins to the market,” explained Davy.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way,” said the officer. “Now let these cars pass.”
Ben turned the horses off the highway and stopped.
“Now what’ll we do?” Beth wailed.
Toby thought for a minute. “I know! Across this meadow is a dirt road that goes along the river to the other side of town. We can use that.”
“Giddap!” Ben shouted.
It was more fun riding on the river road than the highway. The trees along the dirt road were splashed with reds and golds and yellows. At last Ben stopped the wagon behind Mr. Colby’s market.
“I’m mighty glad to see you,” Mr. Colby said. “Everyone has been asking for Mr. Greevey’s pumpkins.”
The wagon was soon unloaded, and the children rode back to the farm.
“Now for the biggest pumpkin,” said Toby. “Listen.” He explained his plan.
“That’s a great idea!” the others all shouted. Everyone took turns helping to roll the huge pumpkin.
“It must weigh more than a hundred pounds,” said Davy.
Quietly they rolled the pumpkin up onto Mr. Greevey’s front porch. Toby slipped the check from Mr. Colby under the door, and they hurried away.
When Halloween came, there were jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. There were fierce ones and silly ones, funny ones and sad ones. But the biggest, happiest jack-o’-lantern was the one on Mr. Greevey’s front porch, smiling at everyone who passed by.

Permit me to talk about one such personal experience. Mitt and I had joined the Olympic effort in early 1999 and were working to make a transformation of the 2002 Olympic preparations. We were working as hard as possible with long days, extensive travel, and tireless energy. My oldest son, Mike, was 18 and away at college. He had some familiar traits of a typical teenager: somewhat self-focused and endeavoring to be popular. After about a year of intensive effort on the Olympics, and two years left until the Olympic Games started, I wrote the following in my journal:

March 3, 2000. This has been the most difficult week of my life. Last Sunday, our son Michael was diagnosed with cancer. I don’t think I have experienced anything so traumatic before. Michael had been exhibiting many symptoms, including loss of appetite, loss of weight, night sweats, coughing, and lethargy. Our neighbor, an ER doctor, recommended a chest X-ray. After the X-ray, the technician said they saw something there and sent him over to Utah Valley for a CT scan. The doctor told us Mike had a growth that filled much of his chest and that it was likely Hodgkin’s, a form of cancer. We felt like we had been hit by a truck. We were very positive toward Mike, and he broke down a little, saying that he was scared. The doctor privately told me the cure rate was about 50%. I drove home and called members of my family, sharing tears, and that was tough. I felt at that moment that I wish it could be me and not my son. I would have done anything to change places.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Everything had changed. We recognized that everything was in the Lord’s hands.

It is now Friday, and I am sitting here in the hospital awaiting the results of the Gallium scan, which will indicate the staging (or the extent) of his cancer. It is very difficult waiting for the results of this final test. So far this week, we have had many ups and downs. Yesterday, we found out his cancer is definitively Hodgkin’s, which is one of the most curable from of cancer. We are certainly grateful for this. As we go through this experience, we are clearly reminded of the importance of the plan of salvation and our complete reliance on the Lord. I have given Mike three blessings this week, and it is wonderful to have the divine power of the Priesthood and see the importance it has in our lives.

They found Mike’s left chest cavity filled with fluid, which was the first thing they had to deal with. The tumor filled a great deal of his chest, also surrounding the heart, and was pressing on his wind pipe, causing the cough. This put him in a very delicate situation. They decided to wait until Wednesday for the surgery to do the biopsy. The anesthesiologist met with us and said that given that the tumor was pressing against the air passages and that his lung had recently recovered, the surgery was quite risky because his breathing could shut down. He would have to be operated on sitting up because of these risks. In fact, he said that several other doctors had passed on the anesthesia. Mike went into surgery and did fine.

After Mike came home between treatments, Jennifer and I became his nursing care, flushing his IV lines twice a day, giving him his meds, and I would give him his shots to help his ANC (immunity) counts come back up. One day, Mike had over 20 pills to take. Mike was very thin and continued to lose weight to the point that he got down to 126 pounds (he is 6 feet tall) and was so thin that his eyes became hollow and his voice changed because he had a hard time breathing. He had to take a big breath just to say something. All throughout this, Mike was a great trooper and didn’t complain at all. He would be more concerned about others.

Then the third cycle of chemo hit. The cycles have a cumulative effect and create a downward spiral of impact. He kept getting weaker and weaker. He got so weak during his third cycle that he could barely walk. In fact, Jennifer and I had to carry him up the stairs to bed.

Now, see the transformations.

One of the amazing things has been my wife, Jennifer. She has consistently been completely upbeat, particularly around Mike. She knows she has to lift him up, and she has done a wonderful job. Every once in a while, she shows more of what is down deep inside, and she had the same reaction I did, which was “Why not me instead?” She also has thought deeply of the concept of casting your burdens on the Lord. This has really helped her and me.

Mike has gained a deeper appreciation of mortality and what is really important. He gave his testimony at his friend’s missionary farewell and said something we had never heard before. He said that the night he found out he had cancer, that when he said his prayers, the only thing he could think of was to thank his Father in Heaven for the trial he was to receive because he knew it would make him a better person.

It did.

When Mike was in Primary Children’s hospital, he would go around in his wheelchair every day to visit his little buddies who also had cancer. One of his buddies, four-year-old Alec, would only talk to Mike and his mother. Alec didn’t make it. Only Mike and one other person from that group made it, which was very, very hard. Mike came away with a tremendous love for children we had never seen before. It has become part of who he is. Now when Jennifer and I go to visit the grandchildren, if Mike is in the building, they all run by us and directly to Mikey. He has developed a kindness and love for children I never see elsewhere to the depth he has. Mike still has periodic health issues and had a close call at New Year’s, but he is different. Mike transformed from a somewhat self-focused high school student to a person who loves and is loved by children.

When external events happen, especially those we would rather avoid, we can seek to use them as schoolmasters to transform us in some way, as happened to Mike. However, we have to have an open and willing heart and the determination to change.

I was guilty of offering such a selfish prayer toward the end of my time at the Provo MTC. I decided that it would be powerful to have a personal story of forgiveness to share with investigators of the Church. In a kneeling prayer, I asked Heavenly Father to give me an Enos-like experience. I wanted to testify authoritatively, based upon something more than the good feelings I enjoyed when reading the scriptures or saying personal prayers.

Of course, nothing came of that prayer, which was inherently selfish and vain. Nothing came because I needed nothing more—except greater humility and increased appreciation for the plan of salvation. I already had a testimony of the Church, conveyed to me first by my parents, as well as Primary and Sunday School teachers. As I recognized many years later, my sharing an Enos-like experience with investigators would have unintentionally made them feel that their more modest spiritual manifestations were inadequate.

That spiritual realization in the MTC led me to re-examine the source of my testimony. As a young boy, I trusted my mother’s declarations of faith. As I grew, the Holy Ghost touched me in similar moments of spiritual confirmation, such as bearing my testimony. I could feel the confirming burning of the bosom described in section 9 of the Doctrine and Covenants, a revelation given to Oliver Cowdery through Joseph Smith as they translated the Book of Mormon. Even more convincing for me was the feeling of receiving forgiveness of my sins. Those moments of spiritual healing, which I still enjoy often, help me feel closer to the Savior and Heavenly Father. They bolster my testimony.

“Daddy, wherever did you find him?” cried Becky as she came up the path from the school bus.
On the lawn in front of her dad was a beautiful Canada goose, his one good wing flailing around while the other dragged on the ground.
“I found him by the pond,” replied Dad, “but he’s badly wounded.”
Becky’s mother came hurrying from the house to see the injured honker.
“He looks more dead than alive!” she exclaimed. “And he’s so handsome,” she added as she knelt and stroked the battered bird.
Becky’s heart went out to the poor wild creature. His lean and elegant body was covered with black, gray, and white feathers that shimmered in the sunlight. But his once proud strut was hampered by the dragging wing.
“Look how lopsided he walks,” said Mother sympathetically. “Shall we feed him some chicken mash?”
Dad nodded his head as he picked up the big, wounded goose.
“Becky, get some chicken feed,” directed Mother. “Your dad can carry him to the woodshed.”
A little later Becky watched as the honker ate hungrily. “Can he be mine?” she asked. “I’ll take care of him.”
“I guess so,” replied her dad. “But be sure to see that he has food and water every day.”
“I’m going to call him Sir Richard,” declared Becky, “because he’s so dignified and brave looking.”
“Sir Richard, the lopsided?” teased her dad.
“He is very handsome and he must be courageous too,” defended her mother. “I think Sir Richard is a good name for him.”
Becky often sat by the wild gander as he ate, and every day he seemed to grow a little stronger. In about six weeks Sir Richard was strong enough to walk, but he still looked and walked a little lopsided.
He followed Becky about, frequently drawing his long neck against her overalls to show his affection for her. Then he’d shove his bill into her hand, pretending to bite.
Sir Richard seemed to like the farmyard animals. The baby chicks used him for shade from the sun, and he acted as a mother to the baby kittens when their own mother wasn’t around.
The other barnyard geese trailed after the handsome stranger, trying to get him to notice them. How they preened and fluttered their feathers before him! But Sir Richard ignored all their feminine ways, and if they came too near, he’d give them a whack with his bill.
Becky grew to love her wild friend, though he would often get in her way as she did her chores. She would sometimes sit outside with the gander’s beautiful neck stretched across her legs and stroke his soft feathered body.
One day Sir Richard was nowhere to be seen. Becky called and called, then headed toward the pond. Perhaps he has gone to the pond to swim, she thought, so her eyes opened wide with surprise when Sir Richard suddenly flew into the barnyard and landed with a thump at her feet. His wing appeared to be completely healed.
The goose seemed almost as surprised as Becky, and shook his head in astonishment at what he had done. He looked at the wounded wing and gabbled excitedly. Then he raised both wings and danced about the barnyard. Running back to Becky, he pulled at her overalls and thrust his bill into her hand.
That evening at supper Becky told Mother and Dad about Sir Richard. They looked at each other and then at Becky.
“Becky, dear,” said her mother, “now that summer is nearly over and Sir Richard’s wing is healed, he’ll want his freedom.”
“That’s right,” Dad agreed. “Instinctively, now that he’s well, Sir Richard will want to travel freely with his own kind. It’s all part of Heavenly Father’s plan.”
Becky’s eyes went quickly from her mother to her father and she read in their expressions the awful truth.
When school started, she hurried home each day to see if Sir Richard were still at the farm.
“Do people ever clip the wings of geese to keep them from flying?” she asked Dad hopefully one night.
“Sometimes they do,” he replied, aware of the sadness in Becky’s voice.
Each day she scanned the sky. Then one crisp fall Saturday the first flight of wild geese flew south over the farm. When Sir Richard heard them his regal body trembled, and Becky’s heartbeat doubled. A lump seemed to catch in her throat, and a loneliness began to fill her heart.
She looked at Sir Richard and then at the sky, from which came the clear, shrill call of his wild friends. A moment later Sir Richard took a running start and rose into the air, answering the natural urge that filled his untamed heart. Becky watched until he was only a speck in the sky.
Her solitary, drooping figure made a lonely picture as she walked toward the house. But soon Becky’s face broke into a smile when she remembered with pride how her once-crippled friend had risen so grandly skyward. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up at the heavens where he had disappeared.
“Good-bye, Sir Richard,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”

One faithful sister shared a special spiritual experience in the Salt Lake Temple. While in the confirmation room, after a vicarious confirmation ordinance was pronounced, she heard, “And the prisoner shall go free!” She felt a great sense of urgency for those who were waiting for their baptismal and confirmation work. Upon returning home, she searched the scriptures for the phrase she had heard. She found Joseph Smith’s declaration in section 128 of the Doctrine and Covenants: “Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceedingly glad. Let the earth break forth into singing. Let the dead speak forth anthems of eternal praise to the King Immanuel, who hath ordained, before the world was, that which would enable us to redeem them out of their prison; for the prisoners shall go free.”

One day, my friends and I bought drinks for lunch. My friends bought iced tea, and I bought juice. Noticing this, they started calling me the odd one out. But I felt good that I didn’t give into the temptation to let down my standards. Now, my friends respect me for standing up for what I believe. I’m thankful for the Word of Wisdom that helps me keep my body strong and healthy.
Alejandria F., 18, Philippines

President Wilford Woodruff learned why people on the other side are so busy through a vision he received of the spirit world in which he spoke with the Prophet Joseph Smith.
I saw him at the door of the temple in heaven. He came and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith [Joseph Sr.]; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again, and I got the privilege to ask him a question. “Now,” said I, “I want to know why you are in a hurry. I have been in a hurry all through my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.” Joseph said: “I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the Priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom, has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when He goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry in order to accomplish it.” [“Discourse Delivered at the Weber Stake Conference, Ogden, Monday, October 19th, 1896,” Deseret Weekly, 7 November 1896, 642–43; also The Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946), 288–89]
Hurry is the operative word. Urgency would describe the work on the other side of the veil. We know what that work is in which the righteous spirits are so busily engaged. It is the preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ—proclaiming, as Isaiah described it, “liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound” (Isaiah 61:1).

Living the Young Women Values has helped Joanne Larsen of the Calgary Alberta 12th Ward introduce the Church to a friend. In Young Women meeting they talked about giving a copy of the Book of Mormon to a friend. This class goal got Joanne interested, and she gave a copy to her friend. She also invited her friend to girls’ camp and to ward activities. Now the friend is taking the discussions from missionaries in Joanne’s home.

I was told recently of two missionary companions—one had many outward talents, the other didn’t. They had received a letter from a man and his family to whom they had taught several discussions. The letter told the elders to come by and pick up the Book of Mormon because the family had decided they were not interested in continuing the discussions.
The more outwardly talented elder felt confident that by using all his social skills and all his learning he would be able to change the man’s mind. During the meeting he used every persuasive skill he could think of. The other elder listened. Finally the man agreed to continue the discussions.
Later, at the family’s baptism, the talented elder remembered the night with some degree of pride. After the baptism the man told him, “The night I changed my mind and continued to have you teach me was the most important night of my life. As you talked to me, my mind was so determined to not listen that there was nothing you could have said that would have caused me to continue. But then I looked at your companion. His eyes were focused on me. I saw in his face more love than I had ever known before. My heart felt a spirit that made it so I could not resist his silent message. I decided then that if this church could cause someone to love like that, then I wanted to be part of it.”

I was 14 when I got baptized, but I didn’t really like going to Church activities because I didn’t have any friends. It was hard coming into a totally new experience feeling like I didn’t know anyone. On top of that, I still had school and other things to worry about.
But as I got older, I felt a desire to strengthen my testimony of the Savior, so I started attending seminary. It was just a nice experience at first. But then I made friends with some of my classmates, and they helped me become more active in the Church. I even set a goal to graduate from seminary.
I could tell that my heart was being molded each day as I went to class and learned about the Savior. I read the scriptures more and came to rely on them, especially when I faced challenges.
Now I’ve graduated from seminary and made a new goal to serve a mission so I can help others learn about Christ. I know the Lord helps us when we act on our faith—even if it starts out as just a little seed.
Romino P., 20, Philippines