Gospel Story Finder

As each month passes by on my mission, I am always thrilled to receive the New Era. The article “We Talk of Christ” really hit me hard. As I was working with the hearing impaired in the Portland area, my companion and I met a fine young lady and became good friends. She asked a lot of questions on a lot of different subjects, especially about prophets and temples, and we answered the best we could.
After the third visit she asked us not to return. I asked myself what we had done wrong. Looking back, I remembered reading “We Talk of Christ” in the New Era two days earlier. I realized that we didn’t talk about Christ very much, perhaps leading her to suppose that we worshiped prophets.
The next day we called her and apologized. I told her that we believe in Christ as the cornerstone of our religion. She responded happily and wanted us to come back and talk to her. I pray that she will accept the gifts of the gospel.

My dear brethren, I am both humbled and honored to occupy this position. For reasons obvious to you, it never entered my mind that such a calling would come to me. One year ago when I was sustained, President Hinckley made it clear to the entire Church that he had not initiated the process that resulted in my call. I told him later that I was likely the only General Authority in the history of the Church to be sustained by the members in spite of a disclaimer by the prophet!
Nevertheless, I am grateful for your sustaining vote and pledge my whole heart to this great cause. I am grateful beyond expression for my family, for my wife and children, and for my good parents. My mother passed away two years ago, just two days after April conference. She was small in stature, yet I stand on her shoulders every day. Her influence will ever be with me. I cannot honor her properly by what I say but only by how I live.
I do not know what to say of my father that would not embarrass him, except that I love him and that I sustain him. At the risk of being too personal, I will say that as I watch him grow older, my mind goes back to days when we were little children, when he would lie on the floor and wrestle and play with us and lift us in his arms and hug us and tickle us, or pull us up into bed with Mother and him when we were sick or frightened in the night. My memories of him will ever be of laughter and love, of steadiness, of testimony, of relentless hard work, of faith and fidelity. He is kind and wise, and I am blessed beyond measure that I not only sustain him as my prophet for this season of mortality but that I also claim him as my father now and throughout all eternity.
Several weeks ago my mind was stimulated when Elder Douglas L. Callister of the Seventy was asked to give a brief history of his grandfather LeGrand Richards in a quorum meeting. Among other interesting things he reported was this: When Elder Richards was a young bishop, he visited those who were less active. He boldly invited them to speak in sacrament meeting to the subject “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Remarkably, several of them responded positively, and that experience put them on the road back to full activity in the Church.
I would like to speak to that same theme this evening. I invite each of you, young or old, to dedicate a small notebook to this theme. Write at the top of the first page the words “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Then briefly list those things that come to mind. Over time, additional thoughts will come, which you can add to your list. Soon you will have a growing booklet that will fill you with gratitude and appreciation for your membership in the Lord’s Church. It may even provide a resource for talks you may be asked to give in the future.
My list is already long, and I have selected just a single item from it to discuss this evening. I must save other topics for another place and time.
I will speak briefly of the principle of repentance. How grateful I am for the understanding we have of this great principle. It is not a harsh principle, as I thought when I was a boy. It is kind and merciful. The Hebrew root of the word means, simply, “to turn,” or to return, to God. Jehovah pled with the children of Israel: “Return … and I will not cause mine anger to fall upon you: for I am merciful … and I will not keep anger for ever. Only acknowledge thine iniquity, that thou hast transgressed against the Lord thy God.”
When we acknowledge our sins, confess them and forsake them, and turn to God, He will forgive us.
While I was serving as mission president recently, two of our elders asked if I would meet with an investigator who was scheduled for baptism the following day. She had some questions they were unable to answer. We drove to her home, where I met a young widow in her late 20s with a child. Her husband had been killed in a tragic accident a few years earlier. Her questions were thoughtful, and she was receptive. After these were resolved, I asked if she had any other concerns. She indicated that she did and that she wanted to speak with me alone. I asked the elders to step outside and stand on the lawn where they could see us clearly through a large window. As soon as the door closed behind them, she began to weep. She recounted her years alone, filled with heartache and loneliness. During those years she had made some serious mistakes. She had known better, she said, but had lacked the strength to choose the right path until she had met our missionaries. During the weeks they taught her, she had pled with the Lord to forgive her. She sought assurance from me that through her repentance and through the ordinances of baptism and the receipt of the Holy Ghost, she could be cleansed and become worthy of membership in the Church. I taught her from the scriptures and bore testimony of the principle of repentance and of the Atonement.
The next day my wife and I attended her baptism and that of her little girl. The room was filled with friends from her ward, ready and anxious to stand by her as a new member of the Church. As we left that service, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude for the magnificent principle of repentance and for the Atonement that makes it possible, for the miracle of conversion, for this great Church and its members, and for our missionaries.
What does my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints mean to me? It means everything. It influences, enlivens, permeates, and gives purpose and meaning to everything in life that is important to me: my relationship with God, my Eternal Father, and with His Holy Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. It teaches me that through obedience to the principles and ordinances of the gospel, I will find peace and happiness in this life and be invited to live in God’s presence, with my family, in the life that surely will follow mortality, where His mercy will satisfy the demands of justice and encircle me and mine, and you and yours, in the arms of safety. I so testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Although we live on the east coast of Queensland, Australia, we are Germans. My husband, Siegfried, was born in Danzig, and I was born in what is now the Czech Republic. When we considered going on a mission, we had concerns. Our family is constantly growing. The separation would be very hard for us. Our little house couldn’t be rented, and there were financial worries. We discussed it together and spoke about all the pros and cons. But in the end we knelt down and asked our Father in Heaven for guidance. After that it was very easy. We both had a good feeling and the certainty that we should go on a mission.

Ward members made very effort to make Sage’s return from Galveston as smooth as possible. During a Sharing Time just before she returned, the Primary presidency held an activity to show the children that although people may be hurt or maimed, they are Heavenly Father’s children and need our help.
Nancy Eldridge, then Primary president, had a video tape made of Sage speaking to the children. On the tape Sage talked about her experience and hopes for the future. She closed by assuring her friends that she was still “the same old Sage.”
Nancy says that each of the children had to adjust to Sage in his or her own way. Her own son had a particularly difficult time. “He loved Sage, but he was afraid, and it bothered him. So he wrote her letters of love and friendship until he was able to work through his feelings.”

One day while studying the scriptures, I felt impressed to share my testimony at the upcoming fast and testimony meeting. I’d thought about doing it before, but I hadn’t since I was really young.
When fast Sunday came, I passed the sacrament and felt the impression even stronger than before. I knew it was the Spirit telling me to bear my testimony. But then thoughts began flowing into my mind, like “You’re too nervous,” “You can do it next month,” and “What will people think of you?”
I was about to give in to my doubts and remain seated when my uncle handed me a small piece of paper and whispered, “This is from your aunt.”
Written on the paper was the one-word question “Testimony?” I immediately decided to do it. When I spoke, I wasn’t even nervous because I felt the Spirit so strongly. I was also happier and felt more grateful after I went up. The Spirit really does work through other people to help us.

Eighty-three-year-old Luella Boyd, a widow, would leave her home in Basin, Wyoming, at five o’clock in the morning, drive seven hours to the temple in Idaho Falls, arriving about noon, and then participate in four endowment sessions. The next morning she would be at the temple as it opened and attend eight more sessions, going without lunch. On the third day she would start at 5:00 a.m., and complete four endowments by noon—then drive home to Basin, Wyoming, arriving at 8:00 p.m. Sixteen sessions—six hundred miles—three days—eighty-three years old! One year she did this eleven times, missing only one month because of bad weather. The most exceptional part of this story is that she currently is serving as a Family History missionary right here in Salt Lake City. Remember, Sister Boyd is eighty-three years old. And you and I think we are busy! What a marvelous spirit and dedication! She is one of 365 full-time Family History missionaries serving in Salt Lake having a remarkable spiritual experience.

In the hall he saw Cathy and Jay talking in serious tones. Steve, pretending to examine the school’s trophy case several feet away, listened to them.
"Jay, I want you to stay here with me."
"You don’t trust me."
"I trust you, but I don’t trust those others you run around with."
"We’re just going for a walk to the end of this one-horse town and back, that’s all."
"If you really love me, like you say you do, you’ll stay here with me."
"And if you trust me, like you say you do, you won’t worry when I’m out of sight for five minutes."
"Jay," she pleaded, "if you mean it about us getting married in the temple after we graduate, you’re going to have to change your life."
"I will; I promise I will. You know I love you."
Jay kissed her and that ended the argument.
...
Outside, the wind cut through them and stung their faces. Most of the stores had closed early in the afternoon; the only one that hadn’t was in the next block, and its large red neon sign blinked erratically the word Bar.
It was a corner bar and they could look into a window away from the wind’s direction for some protection. Inside Jay and his two friends sat at a table playing cards. There was a big pitcher of beer on the table.
"I never should’ve let him come with those guys," Cathy said.
"Let’s go back. I’m cold."
"Don’t you care about him? He’s a member of the priests quorum."
"Sure I care."
"Then go in there and bring him out."
"It looks to me like he’s where he wants to be."
"He promised me he wouldn’t drink again."
"Look, Cathy, everybody knows the only reason he goes to church is because of you."
"But if I can get him away from his friends, he’ll change. I love him. He’s asked me to marry him after we graduate."
They watched as Jay poured himself another glass.
"If he goes to the bar after you’re married, then what?"
"He wouldn’t do that. Besides, I’d be with him."
"All the time?"
"He wouldn’t do it!"
"Okay."
"You don’t believe me, do you? I can help him be strong."
"Can you?"
"Yes, and I’m going in there to bring him out."
"Do you know what he’s going to say if you go in there?"
He wasn’t sure if she heard him, because she just looked down at nothing in particular for the longest time.
"Yes," she finally said, "I know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me that it’s just the music and the air hockey and the laughter and the cards that he likes, and he’ll ask me to just sit with him, and if I do, then all the way back he’ll tell me that he’s no good and that I deserve somebody better, and I’ll tell him it isn’t true but that he needs to change, and he’ll say he knows it, and he’ll ask me to help him to be good, and we’ll map out goals for him, and then things will be good for a while, but in a few weeks it’ll happen all over again."
She melted into his arms and cried, and he told her it was all right. A few minutes later they returned to the school.
"Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder," she said just after they were inside.
"It’s okay," he smiled, "the jacket’s waterproof."
...
About midnight, after the bar closed, Jay returned with his friends and some of the truckers. He stumbled around until he found Cathy, who was sleeping on the floor near the other girls in the band.
"Cathy, I’m back. I hope you’re not mad. We found a little cafe in town and we played cards there."
"Oh," Cathy said sitting up. Steve watched them as they talked.
"Anything exciting happen here while I was gone?"
"Jay, if you only knew."
"Knew? Knew what?"
Cathy looked at him carefully in the dim light. "Jay, Steve said he’d pick you up for priesthood meeting next Sunday. I hope you go. Good night."

Sister Meacham stood up in Primary and said, “Boys and girls, we want you to share your wonderful talents at our Primary Celebrations Show!”
Allison slid down in her chair. What could she possibly perform at a talent show? She didn’t sing, play an instrument, dance, or do anything else like that.
Her best friend, Sarah, leaned over. “I know what song I want to sing!”
“You’ll be awesome,” Allison said. And she would, too. Sarah had such a pretty singing voice. And, of course, Courtney was incredible on the piano. Allison glanced around the room. Everybody else had a special talent. Everybody but her.
Later that day Allison helped Mom deliver some surprise cookies to Sister Moody. Allison rang the doorbell.
“Who’s there?” asked a soft voice.
“Sister Andrews,” answered Mom. “And my daughter. We wanted to drop off some of Allison’s homemade cookies.”
Sister Moody opened the door, and her face lit up in a big smile. “My favorite!” Sister Moody took the plate gratefully. “What a talent. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.”
Allison’s heart skipped a beat. Baking cookies was a talent?
During the car ride home, Allison glanced up at Mom. “Mom, Sister Moody said baking cookies is a talent. Is she right?”
“You bet she is.”
“But … well, you can’t bake cookies on a stage. Nobody claps when you mix dough in a bowl or pull cookies out of the oven.”
Allison always figured making cookies was no big deal. She’d made that chocolate chip recipe so many times she had it memorized.
“Not all talents belong on a stage, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Some people are thoughtful friends or wonderful gardeners. Being able to cook well is definitely a talent not everyone has.”
Allison thought about what Mom had said. Was it really that simple? A moment later she asked, almost in a whisper, “Do you think I could bake cookies for the Primary talent show?”
Mom reached over and squeezed Allison’s hand. “I think that’s a great idea.”
On the day of the talent show, Allison rushed home from school and started baking. She made five batches of her favorite chocolate chip cookies. The house filled with the smell of chocolaty goodness.
At the talent show, Allison sat next to Sarah and Courtney.
“Your name’s not on the program,” Sarah said. “Aren’t you doing anything?”
“Yes. But it’s a surprise.”
One by one her friends performed. Allison clapped loudly each time. They really were impressive. When everyone finished, Sister Meacham stood and thanked everyone for participating.
“Often we only think of talents as being good at music, art, and singing,” Sister Meacham said. “However, talents come in many different forms. Tonight Allison wanted to share her own special talent. After the closing prayer, you’re all invited into the next room to enjoy her homemade chocolate chip cookies.”
Ooh’s and Mmm’s filled the room. After the prayer everybody hurried into the next room.
“These are so good,” Sarah said, taking a bite of her second cookie.
“I wish I could make cookies this yummy!” Courtney said.
Within minutes, only crumbs remained. Everyone complimented Allison on the delicious cookies. She felt so happy inside. Sister Moody was right. She had a talent to share after all.

Jenny knew something special was going to happen that Christmas of 1938. She had just been baptized. Her baptism had been so special that she knew Christmas would be special too. But she didn’t know how it would be special.
On Christmas morning Jenny woke up early. She heard Dad and her brother Marcus go out to milk the cows, and she knew she had to stay in bed until they came back. That was the rule on Christmas.
“Mayda,” she whispered to her older sister. “Mayda, are you awake?” Jenny wanted to talk about the special day, but Mayda was still asleep. So was Herbie, who slept in a crib across the room. He was only two years old, but she would have been happy to talk even to him.
Jenny sighed and thought about the day ahead. Maybe the special thing would be something under the Christmas tree.
“A Shirley Temple doll!” she whispered. That’s what she hoped it would be—a Shirley Temple doll with curly yellow ringlets, eyes that opened and shut, and frilly clothes with dainty little shoes! Jenny already had a doll, but it was a rubber baby doll with hair and eyes just painted on. When Jenny put the doll to bed, its eyes stayed wide open, staring up at her. A Shirley Temple doll that was under the Christmas tree would make it a really special Christmas!
Finally Jenny heard Dad and Marcus come back from milking the cows. Mama came into the bedroom to get Herbie. “Everybody up,” she said cheerily. “It’s Christmas.”
The large room that was both kitchen and living room was warm and cozy when Jenny got there. Dad and Marcus were warming their hands over the big black stove.
“It’s a cold one today,” Dad said. “I think it’s going to snow.”
As soon as Mama and Herbie and Mayda came, they all went over to the tree. Jenny and Mayda had decorated it the day before with rings of colored paper and strings of popcorn. Mama had said that maybe next year they could afford a string of lights. But it was pretty, even without lights.
Jenny didn’t let herself look underneath the tree until after they had all held hands and sung “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She liked that part of Christmas morning.
Finally it was time to look under the Christmas tree. She spotted her gift right away. It was a doll, all right, but not a Shirley Temple doll. It was just another rubber baby doll, although this one did have eyes that opened and shut. Mama had made the doll a set of tiny clothes and a little pillow and quilt. It was a nice doll. But it couldn’t be the special thing.
Mama said she liked the paper-plate comb holder Jenny had made for her in school. Dad was patting his new shaving lotion onto his face. Mayda flipped through the pages of her new autograph book, saying it was just what she wanted. Marcus grinned as he examined his new jackknife, and Herbie galloped around the kitchen on his new stick horse that had a carved head and a rope tail. Maybe the something special will be something that happens, Jenny thought.
The family ate breakfast, finishing up with an orange for each person, which was almost special, but not quite.
Since it was Sunday, Jenny wondered if what she was waiting for would happen at church during the Christmas program.
Dad went out to hitch the horses to the sleigh. They had an old truck, but it always froze up in cold weather. Jenny liked the horses better anyway.
Mama filled the sleigh with quilts, and they all got in. Just as they were starting out, the Sorensens, who lived farther up the road, came along. The sleigh bells on their horses jingled, making it really sound like Christmas. They all waved, except Raymond, who stuck his tongue out at Jenny. That meant he really liked her! It made Jenny happy—but still, that couldn’t be her special thing.
The Christmas program was nice. Aunt Jessie Fugal sang “O Holy Night,” and didn’t miss even the highest notes. Teeny DeMars played a piano solo, and Red Sorensen played a violin solo. Then Bishop Johnson gave a talk about the birth of Jesus. To close the meeting, some of the Junior Sunday School children presented a tableau of the manger scene while everyone sang “Silent Night.”
It was time to go home, and still the special thing hadn’t happened. Jenny felt disappointed.
Snow was falling. Mama put a blanket over Herbie’s head and ran for the sleigh, followed by Mayda, Marcus, and Jenny. Dad helped them crawl in under the quilts. Then he shouted to the horses. “Giddap!”
The snowflakes were as big as popcorn as they wafted down, and were so thick that it was hard to see the Sorensen sleigh only a few yards away.
“Jenny,” Mama said, “this is the way it was snowing on the day you were born.”
The day I was born, Jenny mused. The day I came to live with Dad and Mama and Mayda and Marcus. Of course Herbie hadn’t been born yet.
Jenny looked around at them, at their heads poking out from under the quilts. They all smiled at her.
The day I was born, she thought again. If I had been born to some other family, I probably wouldn’t know any of them!
Suddenly Jenny knew that this was the special something she had waited for all day. It wasn’t a special gift or a special happening. It was a special knowing. It was knowing that she was where she wanted to be, with the people she wanted to be with. It was knowing she was right where she belonged.
Jenny snuggled down under the quilts, knowing. It truly was a special Christmas.

When I went on an overnight field trip with my school, I decided I would still have scripture study. I even invited three friends to join me. One was a member of the Church, but my other two friends were Baptist and had never read the Book of Mormon.
Although we had our scripture study in the back of a moving bus, I could feel the Spirit. Each of us picked out a few verses to share with the group. I chose many from the Bible but also some from the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants.
After we finished, my friends asked to look at the Book of Mormon. I showed them the Articles of Faith as well and told them about Joseph Smith. I also took the time to look at their Bibles, which were a different version from the one we use.
I feel so blessed to know that we have both the Book of Mormon and the Bible. And I can’t wait for the day when I will be able to share them both as a full-time missionary.

I am happy to declare that the light has dawned. I received the assignment to dedicate four small meetinghouses in Nigeria. I had seen them under construction—simple, functional, but beautiful—gleaming white against the brilliant greens of the tropical rain forest. The local Saints had helped when they could, and the sisters deserve special mention for carrying water on their heads for two or three miles to the building sites.

In each new chapel, as we took our places on the stand, we paused to shake hands with the local chiefs who had been invited to attend and to occupy the front seats. They were dignified in their robes, each carrying a chief’s cane. The head chief at each chapel graciously accepted the invitation to address the congregation. Of course, they used different words, but they expressed the same powerful sentiments: “You are the light of this community. You have brought us the true gospel. Thank you for coming.” Did not the Savior exhort us, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16)? Oh, that we might all be a light to our respective communities!

Harriet and her parents recently moved from their home near Melbourne to the countryside near Mornington, farther down the peninsula. Moving can be difficult for any teen. Even though Harriet had lived in several wards, moving was still a little scary and intimidating. But it has all worked out. “My new seminary class is just the ward group. We meet every day during the school year at 6:30 a.m. At first, I was really nervous, but somehow I just fit in. For an activity, we went on a fishing trip. The theme was becoming fishers of men. Before I went on the trip, I hadn’t seen any of the group. I didn’t even want to go. But everyone was really nice and talkative, especially Naomi and Leirosa. Then Young Women just grew. Some others moved in about the same time, and now we have a big group.”

Wow! My first band concert! I buttoned the jacket of my blue uniform, then checked myself out in the mirror. Cool! Except that my red tie was still crooked. I yanked it off and tried again. Not good!
Dad’s a whiz at ties. He teases that you can’t be a good missionary until you can tie a proper tie. But he wasn’t home yet, so I zipped downstairs and found Mom in the living room. She did a super job.
I was tucking the tie into my jacket when my sister, Peg, bounced into the room, all decked out in her band uniform. Her tie was perfect, of course!
We’re in the same band. She’s a year older than I am, but we’ve always gotten along just fine—until the new girl, Dina, moved next door, anyway. Dina says she can’t stand her own little brother. I guess it’s catching—I’ve become a little brother for Peg to nag and scold.
She stood there now, looking down her nose at me. “My, my, how grand our little drummer boy looks in his new uniform! Are you all set to pound on your drum?”
“Now, Peg!” Mom chided. “You shouldn’t talk to your brother like that. Besides, a drummer is an important part of the band.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the concert. Dad should be here any minute.”
Peg sniffed. “If you call banging on an oversize tin can important.”
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Without the drum, the band couldn’t … well, it wouldn’t even be a band.”
“Ha! Bam, boom, bang! Who wants to hear that racket? Now, me—the first clarinetist—I carry the tune.”
Just then Dad poked his head in the door. “Everybody ready?”
We piled into the car and headed for the school.
In the auditorium, Mom and Dad settled into a couple of seats down front. Peg and I bustled to our places on the stage. I sat down at my drum and wrapped my fingers around my drumsticks.
They felt good in my hands.
Peg leaned across to Dina who plays second clarinet. Loudly enough for me to hear, she said, “My brother thinks we couldn’t be a band without him whacking away on that stupid drum.” They started to giggle, and I felt my face getting hot.
The band director, Mr. Larson, marched onto the stage and bowed. The audience applauded, then he turned to us and lifted his baton.
The whole auditorium got so quiet that you could have heard a spider walk across the floor. Mr. Larson leaned toward me. “Keep an even rhythm,” he mouthed. “The drumbeat keeps the band together.”
Then he signaled for me to begin my drum roll. My hands shook so that I was afraid the beat would come out ragged, but a crisp rat-a-tat-tat rattled off the drum, and Mr. Larson motioned to the others to join in with their instruments.
Beating time, time, time, I soared on the music, taking the whole band with me.
When it was time for Peg’s clarinet solo, all the other instruments quieted. I barely stroked the drum, keeping time for her. She hit the highest note in her piece and held on to it. Suddenly disaster struck—her clarinet was squeaking! The harder she tried, the more it sounded like a mad goose with laryngitis.
I changed quickly from a soft stroke to a hard beat. Mr. Larson brought in the rest of the band, Peg got control, and we finished the piece. The music died away, leaving me barely tapping the drum … softer … and … softer. When I stopped, the audience clapped like crazy.
The rest of the concert went off without a hitch. As we were all putting away our instruments, I noticed Peg drooped over her clarinet case, just sitting there. She didn’t even look up when Mr. Larson said that she had done a good job.
He patted me on the back, too, but I didn’t have time to soak up the praise. I was worried about Peg. I could tell that she was an inch away from tears.
When Mom and Dad stopped to talk to some friends, Peg and I went on to the car. Peg scrunched down in the seat like she wished that it would swallow her.
“You did great, Peg,” I said, giving her hand a quick pat. “Anybody can have a squeaky reed.”
“My reed was OK. It did fine for the rest of the concert.” She gulped. “I just lost it on that high note. It was a nightmare! I was so glad to hear that drum beat. …”
Peg’s breathing was funny—as if the air was lumpy or something.
Dad and Mom got into the car. “You guys were wonderful!” Mom said.
“Super terrific!” Dad agreed, starting the engine.
“The drummer did fine.” Peg’s voice was shaky. “The clarinetist should have stayed home.”
“Not so!” exclaimed Mom. “Every instrument is important to the band.”
Dad eased the car out of the parking lot and into the street. “That’s right. It takes them all working together to make beautiful music.”
“Sounds like people!” I piped up.
Peg reached over and squeezed my hand. “I have a thing or two to tell Dina about drums and brothers.”
She didn’t say little brother! This called for a celebration. “Anybody for ice cream?”
“Well, sure,” Peg said. “But you know how you always drip ice cream down your tie. And chocolate doesn’t go too well with red.”
“Since you have two ties, maybe you can let me have one if I do.”
“Kindness to brothers only goes so far,” she said.
I whipped my tie off and crammed it into my pocket. “Problem solved,” I said with a grin.
At the ice-cream palace, Peg dug into her strawberry sundae. Halfway to her mouth, a glob slid off her spoon, splotching her red tie.
“How about that?” I teased. “Strawberry doesn’t go much better with red than chocolate does.”
“Anybody can make a mistake,” she said. “Or maybe two.”
We all laughed. It was beautiful music.

“Pizza face!”
I winced and sunk down into the bus seat, trying to disappear. The 20-minute ride home from school every day was pure torture for me. Lance and Sean always took the seat right behind me, and thought up as many names for me as they could. My face, full of acne since the fifth grade, provided them with such entertainment that they acted like I should be proud to receive so much verbal creativity.
I would run home from the bus stop, sit in the corner of my room with a blanket over my head, and cry. This experience was detrimental to a young girl’s self-esteem, but after a few months the boys moved on to some other poor soul with a visible affliction.
My self-esteem seemed to recover at the same rate my acne cleared—slowly. By high school a pimple was rare for me. On the other hand, both Lance and Sean, whom I still avoided, had acne problems of their own. They were much more withdrawn and had few friends.
“Serves them right,” I would think. “Now they’ve got exactly what they made fun of me for.” I felt inclined, even entitled, to some revenge of my own.
My chance came one day when Sean and I were alone in a large school hallway. He didn’t see me walking his way, and when I judged he was close enough for maximum damage, I said in a most disgusted way, “Pizza face!”
He winced, hung his head, and quickened his pace. As I watched him fleeing my torment, looking so alone in the huge hallway, I was astonished at what I felt. I had expected to feel triumphant. Instead I felt guilty and small.
Revenge had seemed like the clear answer for me, but standing there in the hall, I realized that revenge was empty. I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life. I wanted to apologize. I learned my lesson that day: revenge is not the way to heal your inner injuries.

Shortly after Joseph F. Smith’s birth, a company of men broke into the Smith home. His mother Mary was ill at the time and his father Hyrum was in jail. Ransacking the house, the men entered the room where the baby slept and, without realizing it, threw bedding on top of him. They would have been surprised if they had known a baby was hidden by their actions.
Everyone was relieved when the men finally left the home. After a few minutes Mary remembered Joseph, and she and her sister Mercy ran to check on him. When they saw what had happened they were fearful the baby had smothered. Fortunately, their frantic efforts to revive him were successful.

As I elaborate a bit on my testimony, perhaps an experience might help. While serving as a mission president, I had occasion to discuss the gospel and to discuss missionary work with a Protestant minister. He was troubled because he had received a call to preside over a mission for his church, and because he had had a prior poor experience, he was seeking help. He came to my office in Dallas and said that he really didn’t want to accept the mission call, but he felt he had to. He said he knew that we had the best missionary program in the world, and he wanted to know why it was that we were so successful. I think he was looking for some organizational hints or something of that sort, but I knew that wasn’t the answer.

After I had collected my thoughts, I told the man that there were four basic reasons why the Lord’s program succeeds. I said, first of all, we succeed because we are led by a living prophet, a man who is the mouthpiece for God on the earth, a man who receives inspiration—revelation—on behalf of the Church.
Second, we succeed because we work under the power and authority of the holy priesthood. We don’t assume that authority, we don’t take it upon ourselves, but it is given to us by the laying on of hands, and we are duly delegated to go out and preach the gospel. We have the priesthood.
Third, I said, we succeed because we are teaching the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ as restored in this day. We don’t play, as Elder Packer has taught, on one key; we play the entire keyboard. We know why we’re here, we know what we’re supposed to prepare for, and we know where we’ve been.
And fourth, we succeed because we do what we do on the strength and power of personal testimony. Our young people go out and teach, not because of some promise of remuneration, but because they have a testimony; they forego college or delay it and put other personal plans aside so that they can go out and share their testimonies with the world. I said, when your church can conduct a program with a prophet directing under the power of the priesthood, teaching the fulness of the gospel, and on the strength of personal testimonies, you can do exactly what we are doing. I said, there is no need for you to go to that trouble, though. We already have it going; why don’t you join us? He didn’t accept my invitation.

“It was the first time I’d performed in public in four years,” said Gretchen Williams, from Newport News, when talking about her performance the night before in the opening program. She danced a ballet solo while a friend sang a song. What most people didn’t know is the she’d given up her beloved ballet several years earlier because she was afflicted by painful arthritis.
When Gretchen arrived at the encampment, she discovered that the stage would be much smaller and shaped differently than the one she’d rehearsed on. It would have been easy to back out, using her physical pain or the unfamiliar stage as an excuse. After all, under the given circumstances, there was no way she could perform her best, and hundreds of people would be watching. But Gretchen wouldn’t think of pulling out.
She realized, as the program she performed in said, “Integrity is doing what you know you should do, even it it’s inconvenient or difficult.”
And with that she adds a deep, rich purple to the rainbow.

Years ago, when our children were teenagers, we purchased a ski boat. A little while after we bought the boat, my two sons and I decided to venture out in it just before sunset. Out on the water, the motor suddenly spluttered for a few seconds and then cut out. The fuel gage stated we still had a quarter tank, but a quick investigation revealed that we had in fact run out of fuel. We made contact with our family onshore who arranged for a rescue party to come to our aid. We had been let down by a faulty fuel gage.
Unlike the faulty fuel gage, the old ship Zion will never let us down. Remaining on the old ship Zion, or active in and staying true to the gospel, will result in increased faith, happiness and growth.

More than once I have repeated an experience I had in getting my portrait painted.
In the temple on the fourth floor is the room of the Council of the Twelve Apostles with large chairs in a semicircle. Here important meetings of that body are held. Around its walls are portraits of the Brethren. When I came to this service, I looked upon them with admiration and affection, for these were truly great men with whom I was associated.
Sometime later authorization was given by the First Presidency of the Church for my portrait to be added to the others.
Lee Greene Richards was selected as the artist, and we began immediately. I sat on a chair on an elevated platform in his studio and tried very hard to look handsome, like some of the other brethren. With paints, brushes, and palette ready, the artist scrutinized my features and daubed on the canvas alternately. I returned many times to the studio. After weeks the portrait was exhibited to the First Presidency and later to my wife and daughter.
It did not pass, and I was to submit to a redoing.
The angle was changed, the hours—many of them—were spent, and finally the portrait was near completion. This particular day was a busy one like most others. I suppose I was daydreaming, and quite detached from this world. Apparently he had difficulty translating my faraway gaze onto the canvas. I saw the artist lay down his palette and paints, fold his arms, and look straight at me, and I was shocked out of my dreaming by the abrupt question: “Brother Kimball, have you ever been to heaven?”
My answer seemed to be a shock of equal magnitude to him as I said without hesitation: “Why, yes, Brother Richards, certainly. I had a glimpse of heaven just before coming to your studio.” I saw him assume a relaxed position and look intently at me, with wonder in his eyes. I continued:
“Yes. Just an hour ago. It was in the holy temple across the way. The sealing room was shut off from the noisy world by its thick, white-painted walls; the drapes, light and warm; the furniture, neat and dignified; the mirrors on two opposite walls seeming to take one in continuous likenesses on and on into infinity; and the beautiful stained-glass window in front of me giving such a peaceful glow. All the people in the room were dressed in white. Here were peace and harmony and eager anticipation. A well-groomed young man and an exquisitely gowned young woman, lovely beyond description, knelt across the altar. Authoritatively, I pronounced the heavenly ceremony which married and sealed them for eternity on earth and in the celestial worlds. The pure in heart were there. Heaven was there.
“When the eternal marriage was solemnized, and as the subdued congratulations were extended, a happy father, radiant in his joy, offered his hand and said, ‘Brother Kimball, my wife and I are common people and have never been successful, but we are immensely proud of our family.’ He continued, ‘This is the last of our eight children to come into this holy house for temple marriage. They, with their companions, are here to participate in the marriage of this, the youngest. This is our supremely happy day, with all of our eight children married properly. They are faithful to the Lord in church service, and the older ones are already rearing families in righteousness.’
“I looked at his calloused hands, his rough exterior, and thought to myself, ‘Here is a real son of God fulfilling his destiny.’
“‘Success?’ I said, as I grasped his hand. ‘That is the greatest success story I have heard. You might have accumulated millions in stocks and bonds, bank accounts, lands, industries, and still be quite a failure. You are fulfilling the purpose for which you were sent into this world by keeping your own lives righteous, bearing and rearing this great posterity, and training them in faith and works. Why, my dear folks, you are eminently successful. God bless you.’”
My story was finished. I looked up at the portrait artist. He stood motionless in deep thought, so I continued: “Yes, my brother, I have had many glimpses of heaven.
“Once we were in a distant stake for conference. We came to the unpretentious home of the stake president at mid-day Saturday. We knocked at the door, and it was opened by a sweet mother with a child in her arms. She was the type of mother who did not know there were maids and servants. She was not an artist’s model, nor a society woman. Her hair was dressed neatly; her clothes were modest, tastefully selected; her face was smiling; and though young, she showed the rare combination of maturity of experience and the joys of purposeful living.
“The house was small. The all-purpose room into which we were welcomed was crowded and in its center were a long table and many chairs. We freshened up in the small bedroom assigned to us, made available by ‘farming out’ to the neighbors some of the children, and we returned to this living room. She had been very busy in the kitchen. Her husband, the stake president, soon returned from his day’s labors and made us welcome and proudly introduced us to all of the children as they returned from their chores and play.
“Almost like magic the supper was ready, for ‘many hands make light work,’ and these numerous hands were deft and experienced ones. Every child gave evidence of having been taught responsibility. Each had certain duties. One child had quickly spread a tablecloth; another placed the knives and forks and spoons; and another covered them with the large plates turned upside down. (The dishes were inexpensive.) Next came large pitchers of creamy milk, high piles of sliced homemade bread, a bowl at each place, a dish of fruit from storage, and a plate of cheese.
“One child placed the chairs with backs to the table, and without confusion, we all knelt at the chairs facing the table. One young son was called on to lead in family prayer. It was extemporaneous, and he pleaded with the Lord to bless the family and their schoolwork, and the missionaries, and the bishop. He prayed for us who had come to hold conference that we would ‘preach good,’ for his father in his church responsibilities, for all the children that ‘they would be good, and kind to each other,’ and for the little cold shivering lambs being born in the lambing sheds on the hill this wintry night.
“A very little one said the blessing on the food, and thirteen plates were turned up and thirteen bowls filled, and supper proceeded. No apologies were offered for the meal, the home, the children, or the general situation. The conversation was constructive and pleasant. The children were well-behaved. These parents met every situation with calm dignity and poise.
“In these days of limited families, or childless ones, when homes often have only one or two selfish and often pampered children, homes of luxury with servants, broken homes where life moves outside the home, it was most refreshing to sit with a large family where interdependence and love and harmony were visible and where children were growing up in unselfishness. So content and comfortable were we in the heart of this sweet simplicity and wholesomeness that we gave no thought to the unmatched chairs, the worn rug, the inexpensive curtains, the numbers of souls that were to occupy the few rooms available.”
I paused. “Yes, Brother Richards, I glimpsed heaven that day and many days, in many places.” He seemed uninterested in his painting. He stood listening, seemingly eager for more, and almost involuntarily I was telling him of another flight into heavenly situations.
“This time it was on the Indian reservation. While most Navajo women seem to be prolific, this sweet Lamanite wife in their several years of marriage had not been blessed with children of her own. Her husband was well employed. These new converts to the Church were buying their weekend groceries. As we glanced at the purchases in the large, well-filled basket, it was evident that only wholesome food was there—no beer, no coffee, no cigarettes. ‘You like Postum, do you?’ we asked them, and their reply touched our hearts: ‘Yes, we have had coffee and beer all our lives, but since the Mormon missionaries told us about the Word of Wisdom we use Postum, and we know it is better for the children and they like it.’
“‘Children?’ we asked. ‘We thought you were a childless couple.’ This brought from them the explanation that they had filled their home with eighteen Navajo orphans of all ages. Their hogan was large but their hearts even larger. Unselfishness—the milk of human kindness! Love unfeigned! These good Indians could shame many of their contemporaries who live lives of selfishness and smugness.”
I said to the artist: “Heaven can be in a hogan or a tent, Brother Richards, for heaven is of our own making.” I was ready to return to the picture but apparently he was not so inclined. He stood and listened intently.
“This time I was in Hawaii in the beautiful little temple at Laie. It was a missionary group. The spirit was there; the proselyters could hardly wait their turns to bear testimony of the Lord’s gospel. Finally, the little Japanese missionary gained the floor. By the pulpit in her stocking feet she knelt reverently, and with a heart near bursting with gratitude for the gospel and its opportunities, she poured out her soul to heaven.
“Heaven was there, my brother, in that little room, in that sacred spot, in that paradise of the Pacific with those sweet, consecrated young soldiers for Christ.”
I continued: “Heaven was in my own home, too, Dr. Richards, when home evening was held. Through the years the room was filled with our children, when each, eager for a turn, sang a song, led a game, recited an Article of Faith, told a story, and listened to faith-promoting incidents and gospel teaching from parents who loved them.
“Again, I found heaven in Europe:
“Elder Vogel was a local convert German boy of great faith. His parents refused to assist him in the mission which he so desired to fill. A kind American member helped with a monthly check to assist with the mission expenses. He enjoyed his work and all went well for a year and a half. One day a letter came from the wife of his sponsor, advising that her husband had been killed in an auto accident and it would be impossible to send any more money.
“Elder Vogel kept his disappointment hidden and prayed earnestly for a solution. As he and his American companion, Elder Smith, passed a hospital one day, a solution to his financial problem was born in his mind. The next day he made an excuse and was gone for a time. When he came back he said little but went to bed early. When asked the reason, he said he was a little extra weary. A few days later Elder Smith noted a small bandage on the arm of the German brother, but his question was passed off lightly.
“Time passed and Elder Smith became suspicious of the periodical bandages until one day, unable to keep his secret longer, Elder Vogel told him: ‘You see, my friend in America is dead and can no longer give support to my mission. My parents are still unwilling to help me, so I visit the blood bank at the hospital so I can finish my mission.’ Selling his precious blood to save souls! Well, isn’t that what the Master did when he gave his every drop in the supreme sacrifice?
“Do you believe in heaven, Brother Artist?” I asked. “Yes, that is it. Heaven is a place, but also a condition; it is home and family. It is understanding and kindness. It is interdependence and selfless activity. It is quiet, sane living; personal sacrifice, genuine hospitality, wholesome concern for others. It is living the commandments of God without ostentation or hypocrisy. It is selflessness. It is all about us. We need only to be able to recognize it as we find it and enjoy it. Yes, my dear brother, I’ve had many glimpses of heaven.”
I straightened up in my chair and posed again. The artist picked up his palette and brushes and paints, did some touching up of the portrait, and sighed contentedly as he said, “It is completed.”
In due time it was placed with those of others of the Brethren in the Council of the Twelve room on the fourth floor of the Salt Lake Temple, where it hangs to this day.

Habits are hard to break, but one must first recognize the bad habit. A friend is the best help, next to oneself, in alleviating such a problem. Once you have gotten a person to recognize his problem, promise to help him overcome it. While in navy bootcamp I had this habit myself. Here is my solution: I asked a friend to catch me every time I said something wrong and correct me. I soon caught myself, and with a little extra effort, I overcame the problem. It took some effort though.
Frederick M. Beall, U.S.N.N.A.S. Imperial Beach, California