Gospel Story Finder

When Jim was a little boy, he loved to ride his horse. He had a pair of spurs that made him feel like a real cowboy. One day when he came in from riding, he was disobedient and his mother sent him to his room in the basement. He was so angry that he threw his spurs down the stairs. Later he repented and told his mother that he was sorry. The next time he wanted to ride his horse, he couldn’t find the spurs. He looked everywhere. Finally he knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father to help him find them. When he finished praying, he started looking again—and found them. This was the beginning of Jim’s testimony that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Now he is a stake president. He teaches the children in his stake that praying every night and morning will bring them great blessings all the rest of their lives.

I recall reading a story written by John Burroughs, the famous American naturalist, containing a most touching experience. As I remember, the details went like this: His brother was rather timid, somewhat below the average in those powers and qualities that insure worldly success. He was the kind of man that is “so often crowded to the wall.”
This brother had his plans for going west. Somehow that land of the West would be different. There he might leave the causes of his failure behind. He kept his suitcase packed continuously, ready to go at a moment’s notice—whenever he really firmly made up his mind to go.
John Burroughs told how once he actually started and got as far as White Pigeon, Michigan. There his courage gave out and he came back. Still he kept his suitcase packed, but the end of his life’s journey came before he was ready to go west again.
It was not really the West on the map that he was longing to visit. What he longed for was the dream of a far greater freedom. The dusty suitcase he left behind him was evidence of what had consoled him through the years of his long defeat. It meant for him that his dream was waiting to become a reality somewhere. At any moment he could break away and find what he had never found before.

Illustration by Eva Vazquez
After our nephew got into a serious accident, my wife, Ana María, and I talked about our desire to know the truth among so many different religions and beliefs. One afternoon I sat down on my bed and prayed, “Lord, please help me find a way to know which church is true.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. A friend called to invite my wife and me to his home to learn about some nutritional products. We went, and while we were there, our friend gave us a Book of Mormon. On the title page was a personal note: “I hope this book helps you get closer to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The next day, I looked at the book and prayed again, “Lord, tell me if this book is true. I don’t want to offend you by reading something bad.”
I began reading. As I read, I felt as if I knew the people in the Book of Mormon. When I reached the end, I was so pained by the destruction of the Nephites that I wept. I had read hundreds of books, but no book had touched me the way the Book of Mormon did. I knew it was true.
One Sunday I invited Ana María to accompany me to a nearby chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I thought she wouldn’t want to come, but she agreed. We liked what we heard. Afterward, ward members asked if they could send the missionaries over. “Of course,” we replied.
The missionaries soon arrived with the Book of Mormon in hand and said they had a message to share with us. “That’s a beautiful book,” I said. “I’ve already read it.” This surprised them. Then Ana María surprised me. “And I’m reading it now,” she said. “I’m in Mosiah.”
She had found the book on the table where I left it every day before work and began reading herself. Later she surprised me again when she said that when I was praying for direction from Heavenly Father a few weeks earlier, she had been uttering the same prayer in another part of our home.
I told the missionaries I was ready to be baptized. They taught us the lessons, and two weeks later, my wife and I were baptized and confirmed. We are so thankful that the Lord sent us the Book of Mormon to help us know which church is true.

Becka stood at the kitchen sink, looking through snow-covered pine trees at the sloping meadow beyond. She was dreaming of using her brother’s old skis.
“Honey, when are you going to gather the eggs?” her mother asked. “I’d like to make some custard pies.”
Becka turned from the window with a sigh. “I’ll get them now,” she replied. “I just wish Tim had shoveled the walk before he decided to go somewhere.”
Mother chuckled. “He didn’t just ‘go somewhere.’ He’s helping your father with the snowplow. They’re both out working in this cold right now. That’s more important than clearing a path to the barn, don’t you agree? First things first.”
Becka shrugged and went onto the sun porch. “I suppose,” she mumbled as she rammed her feet into her fur-lined boots and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she called, “Need anything else while I’m out there?”
“Potatoes and a cabbage,” Mother called back. “I’ll make a pot of ham, cabbage, and potatoes for later.”
With a sigh, Becka grabbed the egg basket and opened the door. Winter greeted her with a blast as she stepped out onto the drift-filled back steps. Grumbling, she struggled through the snow toward the barn. It wouldn’t have taken Tim very long to clear this snow, she thought as clumps of it fell into her boots.
Becka forgot all about Tim and the cold when she saw fresh tracks leading to the back barn door and disappearing inside! She put her boots next to the tracks and saw that they weren’t much bigger than her own. The wind rose and the door swayed slightly.
Quietly Becka stepped over the worn threshold. The farm equipment stood silent guard by the back doors, and everything seemed in order. Not even the straw on the floor seemed disturbed. Still, Becka knew that someone was in the barn with her. She tiptoed forward past the empty stalls. Hearing potatoes rattling in the bin, she quickly ducked into the last stall and peeked cautiously over its side. Someone with his back to her was taking potatoes. Becka counted one, two, three, as they dropped into a burlap bag. Then the intruder turned toward the apples—it was Scott Halligan!
Scott counted out three apples, then moved on to the carrots. He smoothed the dust from one long tender carrot and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully, then took a handful of carrots and a handful of beets. Finally he stood upright and threw the bag over his shoulder.
Becka couldn’t believe it—Scott Halligan was stealing food from them! She wanted to say something but waited to see what he would do next. When he stooped and crept through the door of the attached chicken coop, she tiptoed forward and pressed an eye to a knothole.
“Sorry, old girl,” Scott said gently, to a chicken, “but Gramps is sick and we need food. He’d kill me if he knew what I was doing, but you understand, don’t you?” He took an egg from a nest. “Two more and I’ll be gone.” Scott wrapped the eggs in a ragged towel and nestled them gently in the burlap bag.
As he turned to leave the chicken coop, Becka flattened herself against the wall and squeezed behind an old butter churn. She watched him leave the barn, then thought about what she’d seen.
She didn’t know Scott very well. All she knew for sure was that his cranky old grandfather had taken him and his little brother to raise after their parents were killed in an automobile accident late in the fall. Scott sometimes wore ragged clothes to school, but they were always clean.
Now she hurried out of the barn and followed his tracks through the snow to the thicket at the edge of the fence. When she heard Scott ahead, she crouched behind the snow-covered branches. Scott was kneeling in the snow, tying the burlap bag to a sled. That done, he pulled it carefully toward the hill that joined their properties. Becka watched him quietly. Scott hadn’t taken much.
Becka hurried back to the house. She clomped inside the sun porch and stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
Mother looked up and smiled. “Did you get the eggs, cabbage, and potatoes, honey?”
Becka shook her head slowly. “No,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t.”
“Becka? What’s the matter, honey?” Mother stopped stirring, sat down with the bowl on her lap, and called Becka to her.
Becka’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I just saw Scott Halligan stealing food from our barn,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t stop him.”
Mother’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Scott Halligan. I don’t think you know him—he and his little brother live with their grandfather, Mr. Kelly.”
“You mean Seth Kelly, who lives over the hill?”
Becka nodded. “I’ve only seen Scott at school. He’s real quiet there, but I heard him tell our chickens that his grandfather is sick and they need food. I didn’t stop him, Mom. I know stealing is wrong, but we have so much. …”
Mother pulled her close. “You did the right thing, honey. Now the right thing for me to do is to make a phone call.”
“You won’t report him, Mom!” Becka pleaded.
Mother smiled. “I’m calling the Relief Society president. I don’t think finding out that he took food is nearly as important as finding out that they need it. We’ll get a basket of food ready and pay Mr. Kelly a neighborly visit. He’s never wanted to bother with his neighbors, but it’s time for us to bother with him. I don’t think a custard pie would go to waste there, either,” she added.
Becka grinned. “Thanks, Mom! I hoped you’d feel like that. I’ll get those eggs now.”
“Bring extra potatoes and another cabbage, Becka,” Mother called.
Becka waved and hurried back outside. She looked at the snow-clogged path and smiled. “Then I’ll clear this walk,” she said happily. “First things first.”

In the 1960s, my family was an early casualty in the demise of the small American farm. Times were grim and we had no choice but to move—with our herd of about 20 dairy cattle—from a 40-acre spread to a five-acre, semi-urban lot with barely enough room for our large family and our cows. We felt fortunate when we had the bare essentials. We were literally dirt poor and the only “farm kids” in our community and ward.
As a new deacon, I desperately wanted to fit in, but it was difficult. I dressed funny and didn’t have the freedom of the city kids because of my responsibilities to help run the dairy. But several special people extended kindness to me.
One of the great adventures of my youth was a winter camp for our group of Scouts. It was a cold, cold winter, so special preparation was needed. The boys bought insulated boots—except for me. We had no money. I pleaded and negotiated with my father. I even asked him to sell a cow to obtain money for boots.
But there was no way. Having survived even colder winters in his youth, my father learned some important tricks. He took me to the barn and showed me how to wrap burlap sacks around my leather shoes for insulation and for a semblance of waterproofing. How appalling! No way would I use them. I’d rather freeze. But Dad insisted that I pack the burlap. I buried them as deep as possible in my bag.
Off to the mountains and the snow camp. We had a great time, but it became bitterly cold. Our common quest became staying warm. I was especially suffering because my leather shoes were now wet. Overnight they had frozen solid.
I knew I could no longer avoid using the burlap, so I went to the tent and lashed the sacks around my frozen shoes. My feet felt better immediately. But walking out of the tent was one of the worst moments of my life. The ridicule was instant and predictable. I was the laughingstock of the camp, and I felt just terrible.
At the depth of my humiliation, my very cool deacons quorum president, Kyle Blacker, came up to me and asked if I had any more burlap. I did! He asked me how to wrap his boots. In that instant, Kyle deflected the ridicule, and I became the second-coolest boy in camp because of his gesture.
I don’t know if Kyle remembers me or his gesture. It was a little thing to everyone but me. To me it was huge. I learned more of goodness and charity in that moment than at any other time in my life. I learned more about humility, kindness, meekness, lack of guile, and gentleness from Kyle than anyone else has ever taught me. I hope his feet were warm for the rest of the day. He lifted me, and I’ve had the warmth of confidence every day of my life since then. We moved again not long thereafter, and I did not keep in touch with Kyle.
I have served as bishop for several years. In my work with youth I have been blessed by my memory of Kyle’s kindness. The greatest application of the lesson I learned has been in my role as a father. My wife and I are blessed with wonderful children, and one of our sons is named Kyle.

High overhead a flock of ducks locked their wings and dropped down toward the reservoir. It was early morning, and it was duck hunting season. I was in the bulrushes on one side of the reservoir, and two of my friends, Rick and Kinnley, were on the opposite side. The ducks circled the pond several times and then whistled down directly in front of the place Rick and Kinnley were hiding.
I heard three shots. The ducks came up fast. I heard a fourth shot. I remember wondering about it because the ducks were out of range when I heard it. The ducks flew out across the valley and began circling over some small ponds.
Kinnley ran out of the place they’d been hiding and yelled, “Skip, come here.” I knew there would be more ducks coming, and I didn’t want to move. Before I could answer, Kinnley ran back into the bulrushes. He came out again in just a few seconds.
“Skip, hurry!” he yelled.
I ran over as fast as I could so that I would be in position if more ducks flew over. When I reached Kinnley I knew something was wrong. His face was white.
“My gun jammed,” he stammered. “Rick’s been hurt.”
We ran into the bulrushes, and there I saw one of the most gruesome sights in my life. Here was one of my best friends writhing in pain from a shotgun blast in the side. Rick Was moaning. “Help me, you guys, you’ve got to help me.”
I knew we had to stop the bleeding immediately and that then we’d have to get help. The nearest town was several miles away. We bound the wound up with Kinnley’s shirt. It didn’t help much. Rick was dying. Kinnley and I both knew there wasn’t much time left. Our truck was on a road about two miles away. We knew we couldn’t carry Rick to it, and getting help would take time, maybe too much time. While we were trying to decide what to do, Kinnley said, “Skip, let’s give him a blessing.”
We knelt by his side and placed our hands on his head.
“You go first,” Kinnley said.
With the power of the Aaronic Priesthood I blessed Rick. I asked that the bleeding would stop, that Rick would be relieved of pain, and that he would survive the accident. I also prayed that Kinnley and I would be able to think clearly in getting Rick to a hospital.
When we finished our prayers and took our hands off his head, a feeling of peace replaced the panic we’d felt before. I told Kinnley to run and get the truck. I took off my coat and overalls to keep Rick warm. I put a coat under his head and carefully laid him on the side opposite the wound. He was getting weaker. I tried to assure him that it wasn’t all that bad and that he was going to be all right.
Never in all of my life had I felt so totally helpless, my friend in so much pain, dying, pleading for me not to let him die, blood soaking through the shirt we’d bound the wound in. I pleaded with the Lord to please, please let him live.
Kinnley came back with the truck. His face was even whiter than it had been before. We decided we couldn’t risk moving Rick. I left in the truck to call an ambulance. The road was rough, and it seemed like it took me hours to reach the town. I knew that every second counted.
I went into a cafe and said there’d been an accident. I went to a pay phone, the closest telephone, and called the hospital. I told them to send the ambulance to the junction in the road that turned off the main highway to the reservoir.
Several men in the cafe offered to help. We drove to the junction and waited. I can’t remember waiting for anything in my life as long as I waited for that ambulance. It actually took only three minutes from the time I called until the ambulance reached the junction.
The ambulance started following me to the reservoir, but the road was too rough. The ambulance crew loaded equipment into the back of my truck and we started again. It seemed like hours since I’d left Rick and Kinnley, and I didn’t know what I would find.
When we reached them, Kinnley stood up.
“Skip, look at Rick.”
Rick was breathing easier, and it appeared that the pain had subsided. The ambulance crew went to work. They put a pair of pressurized pants on Rick and pumped them up. In just minutes his blood pressure was close to normal, and in about a half hour he had stabilized enough to be moved. The ambulance crew and several of the men from the cafe lifted Rick onto the back of the truck and started for the ambulance.
I stayed behind to get our coats and guns. I sat there by myself for a while and said a prayer thanking my Father in Heaven. A week later Kinnley and I visited Rick in the hospital. He was sitting up in bed playing an electric basketball game, smiling. The experience strengthened my testimony of the priesthood. I knew the blessing we gave to Rick had helped save his life and had helped Kinnley and me make the right decisions.

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

As I have traveled far and wide throughout the world fulfilling the responsibilities of my calling, I have come to know many things—not the least of which is that sadness and suffering are universal. I cannot begin to measure all of the heartache and sorrow I have witnessed as I have visited with those who are dealing with grief, experiencing illness, facing divorce, struggling with a wayward son or daughter, or suffering the consequences of sin. The list could go on and on, for there are countless problems which can befall us. To single out one example is difficult, and yet whenever I think of challenges, my thoughts turn to Brother Brems, one of my boyhood Sunday School teachers. He was a faithful member of the Church, a man with a heart of gold. He and his wife, Sadie, had eight children, many of whom were the same ages as those in our family.
After Frances and I were married and moved from the ward, we saw Brother and Sister Brems and members of their family at weddings and funerals, as well as at ward reunions.
In 1968, Brother Brems lost his wife, Sadie. Two of his eight children also passed away as the years went by.
One day nearly 13 years ago, Brother Brems’s oldest granddaughter telephoned me. She explained that her grandfather had reached his 105th birthday. She said, “He lives in a small care center but meets with his entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a gospel lesson.” She continued, “This past Sunday, Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson. He will know what to do.’”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I had not seen him for a while. I could not speak to him, for he had lost his hearing. I could not write a message for him to read, because he had lost his sight. I was told that the family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting. Any message had to be conveyed in this same way. I followed the procedure by taking his finger and spelling T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N, the name by which he had always known me. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward, tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands in gratitude. Although he had not heard the blessing we had given him, the Spirit was strong, and I believe he was inspired to know we had provided the blessing which he needed. This sweet man could no longer see. He could no longer hear. He was confined night and day to a small room in a care center. And yet the smile on his face and the words he spoke touched my heart. “Thank you,” he said. “My Heavenly Father has been so good to me.”
Within a week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. Never did he dwell on what he was lacking; rather, he was always deeply grateful for his many blessings.

Sister Cook was parked in the driveway, the motor running. Molly hurriedly finished tying her Sunday shoes and ran for the front door.
She stopped midrun. Her scriptures were not on the table next to the door. “Where are my scriptures?” she called to Mom sitting in the living room.
“I don’t know. Sorry, honey.”
“They were right here,” Molly insisted. “Somebody moved them.”
“I guess you’ll have to find them later.”
Molly yanked open the door and ran to the waiting car. “Justin probably grabbed my scriptures,” she muttered angrily.
Three-year-old Justin liked snooping in his sister’s belongings. Her homework and books and baseball equipment were always disappearing. Later she’d find them in the strangest places. Her soccer shin guards ended up in the refrigerator once. Justin had put them in the vegetable bin. Sometimes it was funny.
But it wasn’t funny today. It never was on Sundays. Even though her Valiant A teacher picked her up every week for church, Molly felt like she was alone. She was the only kid in the ward whose family didn’t go to church with her.
On Saturday nights she set her alarm clock for 7 A.M. When it went off, she got up and took a quiet bath and fixed her own breakfast. Everybody else was still asleep, although sometimes Justin came out to the kitchen in his pajamas and ate a bowl of cereal with her.
By the time she left, Mom and Dad were in the living room, reading the Sunday newspaper, its pages spread out all over the couch. Later they would play tennis. In her mind Molly could imagine them hitting the ball back and forth across the net, laughing and enjoying the cool fall weather. Justin would be running after the stray balls and giggling.
Her parents never stopped her from going to church, but they never went with her, either. Most of the time Molly tried not to mind. But sometimes it hurt.
Mom and Dad had gone to a meeting at church only once—to see her baptism. Molly had insisted that she wanted to be baptized. She had been awfully disappointed that Dad wasn’t the one to baptize her. And afterward her parents had left without staying to visit with the other people in the ward who had attended.
Sister Cook always told Molly to give her family time to feel more comfortable with the ward members. Someday her parents would regain their testimonies that the gospel was true and would come back to church.
One Sunday morning Sister Cook had given a lesson about the bishop and the ward family. The bishop was like a father to the ward, she had said. He was there to help the ward members, to help and counsel them just as a father does. The members of the church were like brothers and sisters, and they could be like one big happy family.
Thinking of that had helped for a while, but when she looked around the chapel at all the families sitting together, Molly again felt sad. It just wasn’t the same sitting next to Sister Cook’s family during sacrament meeting.
Today, at the end of Primary, the Primary president, Sister Miller, passed out the speaking parts for the Children’s Sacrament Meeting Presentation. She gave Molly a folded slip of paper and winked at her. The paper read: “Your topic is ‘Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.’ Tell two or three reasons why your family is special to you.”
Molly read the paper twice on the way home. She felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of her. Why did Sister Miller give me a talk about families? I can’t do this assignment. Doesn’t she know how I feel? My family isn’t active at all. They don’t even like church! It isn’t fair!
When Sister Cook pulled up to her house, Molly mumbled good-bye, slammed the car door, and ran up the sidewalk. The entry hall shook when she slammed the front door too.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Mom asked. Still wearing her tennis clothes, she was putting the rackets and balls in the hall closet.
“Nothing.” Molly started for her bedroom, then turned back to look at her mother. “I have a part in the Primary Sacrament Meeting Presentation. I’ll get to speak at the pulpit, just like the bishop.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s in three weeks. Will you and Dad and Justin come see me give my talk?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “We’ll see.” She smiled and went into the kitchen to fix lunch.
That’s what Mom had said last year when Molly had had a part in the Book of Mormon program. But they hadn’t gone.
Molly almost crumpled up her piece of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she remembered last year when she had told the story of Nephi building the ship. Nephi had believed that the Lord would help him, and he’d prayed for guidance to build a ship so that he and his family could cross the ocean. Well, that’s what she would do too. Just like Nephi, she would pray for help and the Lord would help her.
Suddenly Molly had a warm, peaceful feeling. She felt that the spirit of the Holy Ghost was with her, just as she had been promised.
As she spent the next three weeks preparing and practicing her talk, she started noticing the many things that her parents did for her and how much they loved her.
Mom fixed her favorite snacks, helped her with science projects, and always rushed to hug her when she came home from school. Dad played soccer and softball with her, and at bedtime he’d tell her the most wonderful stories. It was always a warm, special time for just the two of them. Even though Justin sometimes seemed like a pest, she was happy that he was her brother. They sang funny songs and giggled, read books, and played at the park together.
Finally the day of the program came. Sister Cook picked her up, and she sat in her assigned seat near the pulpit.
When the Primary children sang “I am a Child of God” and “I Lived in Heaven,” Molly felt close to her ward “family.” And she remembered how much Heavenly Father loved her. She had three wonderful families—a heavenly family, a ward family, and an earthly family!
When it was her turn to go to the microphone, Sister Cook gave her an encouraging smile. And when she started her talk, saying, “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family,” Molly was glad that Sister Miller had given her this talk. She didn’t feel hurt or angry anymore about going to church alone. Even though they didn’t come to church with her, she really did have a special earthly family.
Just then the back door to the chapel opened. Molly’s heart began to pound as Mom, Dad, and Justin quietly walked into the chapel and sat on the back row. They smiled at her, and she couldn’t help grinning back. She started her talk over again: “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.” And she knew that it was true.

At age 17, after being hit in the eye with a baseball, he promised the Lord that if he didn’t lose his eyesight, he would read the Book of Mormon. He regained the use of his eye and read 10 pages every day for nearly three months.
“It was the most powerful spiritual experience I’ve ever had, when the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon was true,” Elder Echo Hawk said. “That experience has empowered me throughout my life to help me improve.”

One day I remember I met in the grocery store some old friends of mine, and this woman had just paid eighty dollars for a small supply of food that she was carrying out of the grocery store. And I came in and bought one or two small things, and she said to me, “How can you do it? How can you do it?” And I said, “Well, I have a wife who is careful and she doesn’t waste anything. She doesn’t throw anything away. She just makes it over, uses it again. And we buy only what we need. And instead of buying the prepared things we can buy as many potatoes probably for a dollar that it would take many, many dollars to put into chips and in other preparations.” I have heard my mother-in-law, who was a very careful cook in her home, say many times, “That woman throws more waste from the kitchen than I would use in a month.” And I have seen that in many homes. And so I think that we need to be very, very careful.

Sometime later, the adversary continued his temptations; someone close to me kept trying to convince me to come over and drink with him. He was pressuring me with the lie that drinking isn’t a big deal as long as you’re not an alcoholic. I felt the inner struggle—on one hand I wanted to have that relationship and common ground with that person, but on the other hand I wanted to show Heavenly Father my love and gratitude by keeping the Word of Wisdom. While I was struggling with these thoughts, my phone dinged and lit up across the room. I went to see what it was—a Facebook notification with a quote from President Thomas S. Monson’s talk “Principles and Promises”:
“The Word of Wisdom … gives specific direction regarding the food we eat, and it prohibits the use of substances which are harmful to our bodies.
“Those who are obedient to the Lord’s commandments and who faithfully observe the Word of Wisdom are promised particular blessings, among which are good health and added physical stamina [see Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21].”2
It is my testimony that Heavenly Father saw fit to send me that specific message at the exact time I was struggling. While answers may not always come that directly and we should always seek to follow the commandments, I was grateful for that blessing. I knew what my decision needed to be and the course I needed to keep following in my life. I needed to confess and forsake my sins and continue to turn away from all ungodliness. I needed to become sanctified through the power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement. I understood that “this life is the time for [me] to prepare to meet God” (Alma 34:32) and to “prove [myself] herewith, to see if [I] will do all things whatsoever the Lord [my] God shall command [me]” (Abraham 3:25). I understood that this is the time to overcome my physical addictions, while I still have a mortal body. And I understood that I needed to show Heavenly Father a mighty change of heart (see Mosiah 5:2; see also Alma 5:12–14) and “have no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually” (Mosiah 5:2).

I have a testimony of those words and what comfort they give. Four years ago, when I found myself quite suddenly a widow with the youngest of my five children leaving for a mission, I felt alone. I did a lot of walking at that time, and one day I told a neighbor I found myself thinking about youth. She said, “Really? I wonder why?” I concluded that perhaps I was trying to remember who I was before I was married. I said, “If I ever have a chance to work with young people again, I will be so much more patient, so much more gentle, and so much more loving.” And I have since added, “I will do all in my power to encourage young people to prepare for the future.”

My Grandma Chasty was the oldest of her Olsen brothers and sisters, and she often took care of them. In the summertime, they played in a dry riverbed near their home in Castle Dale, Utah, USA. One day Chasty heard a voice. Get the children out of the riverbed. But Chasty didn’t listen. They were having fun.
Then she heard the voice again. Still, she kept playing. Then the voice spoke a third time. Get out of the riverbed!
This time Chasty hurried the children out. Suddenly, they heard a roaring sound. A great wall of water came down from the mountains. Because Chasty listened to the Holy Ghost, she saved all of their lives.

Before the temple near their home was dedicated, Olivia invited her grandma to come with her to the temple open house.
I’m happy you came with us to the open house, Grandma.
Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been a little lonely since Grandpa passed away.
I miss him too.
Mom told me that when she and Dad come to the temple, they wear white clothes.
That’s right.
When you turn 12, you’ll get to come here and do baptisms for the dead.
I’m so excited!
Sealings will be performed in this room. Stand in front of this mirror and look at the mirror across the room. What do you see?
It’s as if we go on and on forever.
Just like our family, right? We’ll even see Grandpa again someday.
You’re right. If we keep the commandments, we can be with Grandpa and all of our family because we’ve been sealed in the temple.
Olivia and Grandma followed the tour guide into the temple’s celestial room.
I like how it feels in here. I feel happy.
I do too.
I love the temple, Grandma. Someday, when I’m older, I’ll come back and be married here. I’m happy that our whole family can be together forever—even Grandpa.
That’s right. I’m very thankful for the temple, for the open house, and for you.

Michael West of the Magrath Third Ward, Magrath Alberta Canada Stake, has found that giving service has brought joy to one lady’s life.
Michael delivered newspapers to Rose Hudson, a widow in the ward. She appreciated getting to know Michael. When the newspaper placed subscription restrictions on delivery of weekend papers, Sister Hudson was disappointed since she looked forward to Michael’s daily visits. Michael considered the alternatives and put in the extra effort to buy Sister Hudson’s newspaper at the store and deliver it to her personally on weekends, a simple act of service that is greatly appreciated.

Elder Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told the true story of a loyal sheep dog. When some sheep got stuck in the mountains, the dog stayed with them, circling in the snowy weather, protecting them from coyotes. The dog finally led the sheep back to the shepherd and the flock. Heavenly Father loves us and, like the sheep dog, will never leave us, even when life gets stormy. We should also love and protect others.

Dickley Duck paddled sideways. Instead of paddling front and back, front and back as a proper duck should, he went SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP, and PULL sideways. If he wanted to go in an easterly direction, Dickley turned his body north or south and paddled sideways.

“This is ridiculous,” said his father.

“Most unusual,” said his mother.

“He gets there just the same,” defended his sisters and brothers.

Other water creatures opened their mouths in wonder, and, being kind, said nothing. But a few, like the Heron twins Meg and Greg, laughed and laughed and shouted such things as, “Look at Silly Sider the sidewinder go! He should be in a sideshow! Ha-ha-ha!”

Dickley didn’t like to hear such remarks, of course, but they bothered his mother even more. One day when he saw tears in her eyes after some foolish goose children had said unkind things about his swimming, Dickley said to himself, “I must try to find a way to paddle like other ducks. I’ve tried by myself, but my feet just go SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE. Maybe somebody else can help me.”

Then Dickley Duck sidled off down the lake until he came to Muskrat’s home. “Can you think of a way to help me train my feet to go front and back, front and back, as a proper duck’s feet should go?” He asked.

Muskrat scratched his head. After thinking a while he said, “Try putting your head down into the water as you move your feet. That’s what I do. With your head down it might steer you forward.”

“Thanks,” said Dickley, and he tried the suggestion. But when his head was down his feet just turned him over and over in somersaults.

Then Dickley went to Mrs. Mink’s house. “Can you tell me a way I could make my feet go front and back, front and back, instead of sideways?” he asked.

Mrs. Mink closed her eyes and thought for two minutes. “No, I can’t,” she said. “Not unless you try using just one foot at a time. While you’re pulling with one, you could lift the other one high and put it way out in front of you and try to go forward as the high one comes down.”

Dickley looked puzzled. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll try that.” But it was no use. Dickley turned end over end until he was dizzy.

“This isn’t getting me anywhere.” sighed Dickley. “Perhaps there isn’t a way to get my feet going in the right direction.”

Dickley felt discouraged as he came to Brother Beaver’s house. “Brother Beaver, do you know any way to make my feet go front and back, front and back, instead of SLAP—SKIDDLE?” he asked.

Brother Beaver blinked and slapped his flat tail on the ground three times. Then he said, “No, I don’t, Dickley Duck, but if anyone can help you I think it would be Clara Crane. She’s one of the wisest birds I know.”

“Thanks,” said Dickley, and he went to where Clara Crane was standing in the water watching for a fish to come along.

“Clara Crane, Brother Beaver thought you might be able to help me.” Then he told her about the way his feet always went SLAP—SKIDDLE sideways instead of front and back as they should.

Clara Crane stared into the water for so long that Dickley thought she might be falling asleep, but finally she looked up. “Dickley,” she said, after some quiet thought, “I think your main trouble is with your legs. You must first teach your legs to turn themselves in the right way and your feet will follow properly.”

“But how can I do that? My legs are hooked onto my body and they aren’t very long, and I don’t know what to do!” Dickley wailed.

“I’ll help you,” said Clara Crane. “It’s all a matter of leg exercises.”

“Oh thank you, thank you,” said Dickley. “Could we start right now?”

“Yes, indeed. Now stand tall and turn your body this way and that way, but keep your legs still. Twist—twist—twist, right and left, right and left! Do you feel your legs hurting a bit? Good! That means you are exercising them!”

Well, Clara Crane worked with Dickley for several days, but Dickley didn’t care for the exercises. Sometimes he wanted to give up because his legs were sore. “It’s too hard! It isn’t worth it!” he declared. But then he thought of his mother’s tears and of some of the water creatures’ unkind remarks. So he kept on.

After a time when Dickley swam he didn’t just go SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE sideways. He began to go slap and pull, slap and pull with a forward motion. Then one bright day he started swimming, slowly and carefully. Off he went in the direction his yellow bill was pointing—straight forward, front and back, front and back!

“Hooray! Hooray for Dickley!” cried all his brothers and sisters.

“Hooray for Dickley!” quacked his father and mother, and this time tears of happiness filled his mother’s eyes.

“Hooray for Dickley!” cried Meg and Greg, the Heron twins.

Then Dickley flapped his wings and shouted, “QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! Hooray for Clara Crane and all my other friends too!”

Photograph of Manila Philippines Temple by Leo Camposano Imperial
Dignardino Espi, lead security officer at the Manila Philippines Temple, was apprehensive as he arrived for work on the evening of December 1, 1989. Earlier that day, armed men in Manila had staged a revolt, throwing the city into chaos. It was the seventh attempt to overthrow the Philippine government in four years.
Despite the political turmoil, the Church enjoyed a firm foundation in the Philippines. Over the past 30 years, its membership had grown from a small group of Filipino believers to more than 200,000 Saints. There were now 38 stakes in the country and nine missions. And since its dedication in September 1984, the Manila Philippines Temple had been a source of great joy and spiritual power.
At the temple guardhouse, Dignardino found his colleagues, Felipe Ramos and Remigio Julian. Although they were finishing their shifts, the two men were reluctant to go home. Across the street from the temple was Camp Aguinaldo, a large military base. Knowing the camp could become a target for the armed men, the guards worried about leaving their posts and being caught in the fighting. They preferred to stay and help preserve the sacredness of the house of the Lord and its grounds.
Around one o’clock in the morning, government troops set up a roadblock at an intersection near the temple. A few hours later, a tank plowed through the roadblock, damaging the wall around the temple.
As violence erupted in the street, Dignardino and the other security officers recruited the temple’s two custodians to help them keep the building and its grounds safe. Seeking shelter from government fire, a group of men soon broke open the temple gates. Dignardino tried to compel them to leave, but they refused.
Dignardino Espi
Later that afternoon, Dignardino spoke with temple president Floyd Hogan and area president George I. Cannon over the phone. President Cannon advised him and the staff to take shelter inside the temple. A short time later, the phone lines went dead.
The next morning was fast Sunday, and the staff began their fasts by asking God to spare the house of the Lord from being desecrated or harmed.
The day passed much like the one before it. Helicopters swooped overhead and sprayed the temple grounds with bullets. A plane dropped several bombs nearby, shattering the windows of the Church distribution store and damaging other buildings. At one point a fighter jet fired two rockets over the temple and caught a neighboring field on fire.
In the early afternoon, Dignardino found 10 armed men near the temple entrance. “What you will find inside the temple building is purely religious and sacred in nature,” he told them. He was nervous, but he kept speaking. “If you insist on entering the sanctity of the building, its sacred character will be gone,” he said. “Would you deprive us of these blessings?” The men were silent, and as they walked away, Dignardino knew his words had touched them.
That evening, Dignardino gathered his staff, and they again took shelter inside the temple. He offered a fervent prayer, putting his trust in the Lord to preserve His holy house.
All night, they waited for the bombs to fall, but the hours ticked away in silence. When dawn broke Monday morning, they cautiously emerged from the temple to survey the situation. The armed men were gone. Nothing remained but abandoned weapons, ammunition, and military uniforms.
Dignardino and the other men inspected the grounds and found some damage to a few of the outside buildings. But the temple itself was unharmed.
For notes and source citations related to this account, see chapter 25 of Saints, volume 4 (saints.ChurchofJesusChrist.org).

My name is Koshi. I live near the Sapporo Japan Temple. I loved sitting by a window in my house and watching the temple be built.
During the open house, I invited my good friend to come with us. He thought everything was beautiful.
I like to think of the temple dedication as its birthday. That day was also my birthday. And President Monson’s too! My parents and I got to be in the temple when it was dedicated. I even got to meet President Monson.
I am so grateful to live near the temple. When I have hard days at school, I can walk through the grounds on my way home. I feel Heavenly Father’s love for me when I am there. I look forward to when I can go inside to do baptisms and later get married there.