Gospel Story Finder

With sorrow we have read of young men and those not so young who bravely die, who give their lives upon the altar of freedom. In a hurried moment, one such took in hand a pencil and a scrap of paper and wrote to a worried loved one: “Soon we go into battle. The enemy is well fortified; loss of life will be great. Mom, I hope I live, but I’m not afraid to die, for I’m right with God.”

His mother received the precious note. On the same day another message arrived; “We regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action.”

Friends visited, loved ones comforted, but peace came only from him who called Nazareth his home.

Many years ago, when Sister Teh was pregnant with our first child, I started to worry about how I was to pay for the doctor and hospital bill. Even though we were both working money was always tight. Every month after setting aside funds for tithing and other offerings, rent, utilities, transportation, school, and food- there was nothing left for savings. During this time, I was working full-time during the day and went to college at night until 9:30 pm. Then, a job opportunity came up. It was to sell fruits in the market from 10:00 pm until 5:00 am the following morning. I took the job because it fit perfectly with my schedule!

So, for the next two months, I would be at work from 7:30 am to 4:00 pm. Go to school from 6:00-9:30 pm then go to my second job from 10:00 pm to 5:00 am. I will go home and shower and have breakfast and then the cycle began again. After the two months, I still remember earning around P7,300 pesos. When our first child was born, guess how much the hospital bill was? P7,300 pesos.

Géoffroy walked out of class with his friend Théodore. Both boys were 16, and they lived in Benin, a country in Africa. They were going to a new school to learn about farming. It was their first time living away from their families. They had to study and work for long hours every day.
Géoffroy pulled his backpack up on his shoulder. “I think I might drop out. These classes are so hard.”
“No!” Théodore said. “Don’t drop out. You need to rely on God. If you do, you will succeed.”
Théodore’s words stayed with Géoffroy for the rest of the day. Géoffroy had been raised as a Christian, but he had never tried to rely on God. He knelt on the floor but didn’t start to pray yet. He was nervous. But if he didn’t get help from somewhere, he would never be able to pass his classes. Slowly Géoffroy bowed his head.
“Father in Heaven,” he said, “please show me how to rely on you. Will you please help me pass my classes? I promise to serve you the best I can for the rest of my life.”
From that time on, Géoffroy felt braver and more determined. Classes were still difficult, but he knew that God was willing to help him if he did his part. Géoffroy put aside his fears and worked hard.
He did well in school. Eighteen months later, he was finally ready to graduate. He had done it!

Sister Holland and I were married about the time both of us were reading poems like that in BYU classrooms. We were as starstruck—and as fearful—as most of you are at these ages and stages of life. We had absolutely no money. Zero. For a variety of reasons, neither of our families was able to help finance our education. We had a small apartment just south of campus—the smallest we could find: two rooms and a half bath. We were both working too many hours trying to stay afloat financially, but we had no other choice.

I remember one fall day—I think it was in the first semester after our marriage in 1963—we were walking together up the hill past the Maeser Building on the sidewalk that led between the President’s Home and the Brimhall Building. Somewhere on that path we stopped and wondered what we had gotten ourselves into. Life that day seemed so overwhelming, and the undergraduate plus graduate years that we still anticipated before us seemed monumental, nearly insurmountable. Our love for each other and our commitment to the gospel were strong, but most of all the other temporal things around us seemed particularly ominous.

On a spot that I could probably still mark for you today, I turned to Pat and said something like this: “Honey, should we give up? I can get a good job and carve out a good living for us. I can do some things. I’ll be okay without a degree. Should we stop trying to tackle what right now seems so difficult to face?”

In my best reenactment of Lot’s wife, I said, in effect, “Let’s go back. Let’s go home. The future holds nothing for us.”

Then my beloved little bride did what she has done for 45 years since then. She grabbed me by the lapels and said, “We are not going back. We are not going home. The future holds everything for us.”

She stood there in the sunlight that day and gave me a real talk. I don’t recall that she quoted Paul, but there was certainly plenty in her voice that said she was committed to setting aside all that was past in order to “press toward the mark” and seize the prize of God that lay yet ahead. It was a living demonstration of faith. It was “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). So we laughed, kept walking, and finished up sharing a root beer—one glass, two straws—at the then newly constructed Wilkinson Center.

Twenty years later I would, on occasion, look out of the window of the President’s Home across the street from the Brimhall Building and picture there on the sidewalk two newlywed BYU students, down on their money and down even more on their confidence.

Lori sat on her older sister’s bed as Karyn finished packing her temple bag. Karyn was getting married today.
Lori was excited to go to the wedding reception that evening, but she also felt sad. Her older brother, who had served a mission, could go inside the temple with Karyn. Her parents could go too. But Lori and her two younger brothers couldn’t go inside.
“I wish I could be in the temple with you,” Lori said.
Karyn looked up from her packing. “I do too, but you’ll be right outside. And someday I’ll go to the temple with you when you get married.”
Lori didn’t feel so sad anymore, but she wondered about something else. “How did you know you wanted to marry Matt?” she asked.
Karyn sat down beside Lori. “A long time ago I learned that Heavenly Father has a plan for me. When I met Matt, I realized we could fulfill that plan together.”
“Have you finished that plan?” Lori asked.
Karyn shook her head no. “Matt and I want to have children, finish our education, and much more.”
Lori looked at the beautiful white wedding dress hanging on Karyn’s closet door. “Your dress is so pretty,” she said.
Karyn smiled. “That’s another part of the plan,” she said. “I always wanted to be married in the temple, so my dress needs to be modest.”
A few hours later Lori watched Karyn and Matt come out of the temple. Their faces glowed.
Lori ran to Karyn and threw her arms around her.
Several weeks later Lori got a picture in the mail. It was a photo of Karyn and Matt standing in front of the temple. Karyn had written at the top, “Heavenly Father has a plan for you.”
Lori put the picture on her dresser. She promised herself that someday she would go to the temple and have the same glow that shone on her sister’s face.

After the big London fire of long ago, the great English architect, Sir Christopher Wren, volunteered his services to plan and superintend the building of one of the world=s greatest cathedrals. Unknown to most of the workmen, he passed among them often, watching the construction.

To three stonecutters one day he put the same question: “What are you doing?”

One of them answered, “I am cutting this stone.” Another answered, “I am earning my three shillings per day.” But the third stood up, squared his shoulders, and proudly said; “I am helping Sir Christopher Wren build this magnificent cathedral to our God.”

The first stonecutter was only able to see his immediate task. The second was only able to see short-term benefit from his labors. The third saw that he was doing more than cutting stones or making a living, he was able to see he was creating something that would be a blessing for thousands for years and years to come.

In September 2024, a family of five travelled from rural Papua New Guinea to Hamilton, New Zealand. They did not travel to sightsee or be tourists, but to be sealed as a family for eternity.
The Church is currently constructing a temple in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, but it is months away from completion.
In preparation for the completion of a temple in their home country, the Wano family recently travelled 5,000 kilometres to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple.
Paul and Christina Wano and their three children, Elaine, 17, Natasha, 16, and Ali, 15, made the long trip to be united as a family for eternity.
Paul serves as second counselor in the Papua New Guinea Rigo District. Christina volunteers as a youth adviser in their congregation.
Like every family preparing for an exciting journey, they were thoughtful about their upcoming experience.
“I know that when I go the temple,” Paul said, “I can be a better person in treating my family and others around me the way Heavenly Father wants me to.”
Christina said, “I feel grateful. I feel happy with my family to go to the temple.”
Ali, 15, said, “I’m feeling excited and I’m feeling like it’s a blessing that me and my family are going to a temple to be sealed for eternity.”
His sister, Natasha, 16, said, “I hear people say that when you go to the temple you experience some things that are new, and I’m scared of experiencing new things. But it’s a blessing for me, so I really want to experience new things too.”
17-year-old Elaine said, “I’m so excited, because me and my family have been doing a lot of sacrifice to go to the temple. And now our time has come, and we’re going to go and be sealed, and I’m so excited. I want to be just like the missionaries serving, and I want to be so proud. I want my family to be proud of me.”
The Wano family flew from Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, to Auckland, New Zealand in late September 2024, then took a bus to the nearest temple in Hamilton.
For four days they received instruction and participated in ordinances that bring souls, both living and dead, closer to Christ. For each of them, the most exciting moment was when they collectively knelt at a holy temple altar and were sealed together as a family for eternity.
Ali remembers looking at his parents. “I was filled with joy and peace because I was going to be with them in the next life. One thing the temple has taught me is that now I have to be ready to tell people about what I felt in the temple.”
Natasha says that the experience has changed her. “It has helped me to build relationships with other people. I want to go on my mission so I can tell people about the temple.”
Elaine added, “I felt like there was the Spirit there. I felt it. Now we are home, and we always say our prayers and have family home evening. Being sealed in the temple made us feel strong so we can overcome our temptations.”
Paul says that he “cried in the temple during the sealing, and I knew I was being blessed by God.”
Christina says that when their children joined with them in the sealing room “it was so wonderful. I wasn’t sure if the temple would really change me, but it did. I look at things differently. Everything is more beautiful.”

The experience of a couple whom I shall identify as Brother and Sister Brown (fictitious names) is instructive. Sister Brown was only twenty-one years old at the time, a beautiful woman and a devoted wife. In her first trimester, she contracted the dreaded German measles.

Abortion was advised because the developing baby would almost surely be damaged. Some members of her family, out of loving concern, applied additional pressure for an abortion. “Don’t burden yourself financially with a handicapped child,” they argued. “You are too young and too poor.”

Devotedly Brother and Sister Brown consulted their bishop. He referred them to their stake president, who listened to their serious concern and counseled them not to terminate the life of this baby, even though the child might have a problem. He quoted this scripture:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” (Prov. 3:5–6.)

They chose to follow that counsel and permit their child to be born—a beautiful little girl, normal in every respect, except for a hearing loss, that became evident later. After an evaluation at a school for the deaf, Brother and Sister Brown were advised that this child had the intellect of a genius. Now, some twenty years later, she attends a major university on a scholarship.

When recently asked how they felt about their once-weighty decision, the mother quickly responded, “She is one of the great joys of my life! She is such a choice spirit! Though she lost the sense of hearing, she has compensated with augmented ability otherwise. Her eyes are alive with constant attention. She excels in dancing, even though she perceives the sounds of music from vibrations. She has served as an officer in school. But most significant is her guileless spirit, her unconditional love. She has taught us to serve and to share. Her spiritual insights have helped us to know God and his purposes. My husband and I are so grateful that she is one of our children.”

As a Mormon missionary goes out into the world he seeks to be honest in heart. Let me tell you about a new missionary down in Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand. It was his first week in the mission field; he was trembling and unsure—not of his testimony, but of his ability. His companion took him out to teach a couple who were having their fifth discussion. He did not have anything to say during the discussion. He was very timid. But as they were ready to leave, he went up to this man and, offering a pamphlet with a trembling hand, he said in a quivering voice, “Sir, if you will read this pamphlet, I testify to you that you will know it’s the truth because I know it’s true.” And with that trembling hand he gave that pamphlet.

This man testifies to me today, now living in faraway England—not as an elders quorum president, although he has been; not as a bishop in the Church, although he has been; not as a stake president; but now as a Regional Representative—that that young man, on his very first week in the mission field, offered him a trembling pamphlet from this Church, saying, “Sir, if you will read this I know you will know that it’s true.” Now that is the spirit of a Mormon missionary who is honest in heart; and what an effect he can have on the heart of someone else who recognizes that sincerity and is willing to let the gift of the Holy Ghost act upon him!

I have a friend who learned this truth in a very personal way. His son was raised in the gospel, but he seemed to be wandering spiritually. He frequently declined opportunities to exercise the priesthood. His parents were disappointed when he declared that he had decided not to serve a mission. My friend prayed earnestly for his son, hoping that he would have a change of heart. Those hopes were dashed when his son announced that he was engaged to be married. The father pleaded with his son to get his patriarchal blessing. The son finally agreed but insisted on visiting the patriarch alone.

When he returned after the blessing, he was very emotional. He took his girlfriend outside, where he could talk to her privately. The father peeked out the window to see the young couple wiping away each other’s tears.

Later the son shared with his father what had happened. With great emotion he explained that during the blessing, he had a glimpse of who he was in the premortal world. He saw how valiant and influential he was in persuading others to follow Christ. Knowing who he really was, how could he not serve a mission?

I had been tidying my house, but I couldn’t even vacuum the floors and dust my furniture, because I had so much clutter laying around. God’s house is a house of order (D&C 132:8), and I needed to make mine that way too. A wonderful thing happened to me in the process of tidying my house – I found some “hidden” treasures. Most of us are familiar with the story in the New Testament about looking for a lost coin (Luke 15:8-10). Today, I was looking for my original birth certificate that I needed for applying for a free bus pass.
In the process of looking I found lots of other surprises, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find my birth certificate. I knew that I had originally put it into the top drawer of my filing cabinet in a light brown money belt; but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I looked through all the other file cabinet drawers, to no avail. The other drawers were filled with old bank statements, car repair bills, pay-cheques, house and car insurance documents, etc., but there was no birth certificate to be found anywhere.
Finally, after spending an hour searching, I prayed for help from Heavenly Father to find the lost document. I felt (through the Holy Ghost) that my birth certificate was indeed in the top drawer of my filing cabinet. So, I went back to the drawer and looked through all the piles of papers again. Imagine my surprise when I got down to the very bottom of the drawer and found my birth certificate in a blue pouch. That was when I remembered that I had changed where I stored my birth certificate about two years ago. I’m so glad that the Holy Ghost remembered where my birth certificate was.
But the story doesn’t end there. While delving into the bottom of my filing cabinet drawers, I also found 3 crisp, new, £20 notes, which were sitting among a pile of credit card receipts. Once I found the money, I remembered that I had put them there for safekeeping about a year ago. It was a lovely surprise to find them today. Yesterday I also found some money unexpectedly, as I was cleaning out my handbag. I found a small wallet that I hadn’t used for about two years and when I opened it, I found two £10 notes inside!
I also looked in my filing cabinet for my cheque book, because I wanted to attend tithing settlement on Sunday. I needed to write out a cheque for some extra tithing that I owed. I couldn’t remember the last time that I wrote a cheque for anything, so I had no idea where my cheque book was. When I eventually found it, I looked at the cheque stubs and saw that the last cheque that I had written was four years ago. It’s no wonder that the banks want to “phase” cheques out, because very few people use them anymore. The only thing that I used a cheque for in the past was to pay my tithing every month. Now that I pay my tithing using a standing order from my bank, I have no need to use cheques anymore. Once I had found my cheque book, I wrote out a cheque for the outstanding tithing that I owed this year and put it into my handbag.
On the way home from submitting my bus pass application, I thought to myself: “I should stop and say hello to Jan and Steve.” I hadn’t seen these friends for about two years because they had moved to a new house. Once I found the house, I knocked on the door and Jan opened it. She was in the middle of vacuuming and cleaning when I arrived unannounced and she was standing beside an ottoman in the kitchen. As we talked she said, “We have been in a big mess for a year, but we are finally getting things the way we want them now. I’m getting rid of this ottoman, would you like it?”
"Yes please," I replied.
What Jan didn’t know, was that I had been looking for an ottoman like this for about six months. I had even gone into three charity shops that day, looking for such an item, but I couldn’t find one. But the Holy Ghost knew exactly where a used ottoman was, and he prompted me to go to Jan’s new house, because that was the day that she was throwing one away.
Isn’t Heavenly Father kind to us? On the day that I wrote out a cheque for extra tithing, I found money and was given furniture equal to the exact amount that I had written out my tithing cheque for. I had read about these types of stories in the Ensign before, but it had never happened to me, until that day.

Forgive me for a personal conclusion, which does not represent the terrible burdens so many of you carry, but it is meant to be encouraging. Thirty years ago last month, a little family set out to cross the United States to attend graduate school—no money, an old car, every earthly possession they owned packed into less than half the space of the smallest U-Haul trailer available. Bidding their apprehensive parents farewell, they drove exactly 34 miles up the highway, at which point their beleaguered car erupted.
Pulling off the freeway onto a frontage road, the young father surveyed the steam, matched it with his own, then left his trusting wife and two innocent children—the youngest just three months old—to wait in the car while he walked the three miles or so to the southern Utah metropolis of Kanarraville, population then, I suppose, 65. Some water was secured at the edge of town, and a very kind citizen offered a drive back to the stranded family. The car was attended to and slowly—very slowly—driven back to St. George for inspection—U-Haul trailer and all.
After more than two hours of checking and rechecking, no immediate problem could be detected, so once again the journey was begun. In exactly the same amount of elapsed time at exactly the same location on that highway with exactly the same pyrotechnics from under the hood, the car exploded again. It could not have been 15 feet from the earlier collapse, probably not 5 feet from it! Obviously the most precise laws of automotive physics were at work.
Now feeling more foolish than angry, the chagrined young father once more left his trusting loved ones and started the long walk for help once again. This time the man providing the water said, “Either you or that fellow who looks just like you ought to get a new radiator for that car.” For the second time a kind neighbor offered a lift back to the same automobile and its anxious little occupants. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the plight of this young family.
“How far have you come?” he said. “Thirty-four miles,” I answered. “How much farther do you have to go?” “Twenty-six hundred miles,” I said. “Well, you might make that trip, and your wife and those two little kiddies might make that trip, but none of you are going to make it in that car.” He proved to be prophetic on all counts.
Just two weeks ago this weekend, I drove by that exact spot where the freeway turnoff leads to a frontage road, just three miles or so west of Kanarraville, Utah. That same beautiful and loyal wife, my dearest friend and greatest supporter for all these years, was curled up asleep in the seat beside me. The two children in the story, and the little brother who later joined them, have long since grown up and served missions, married perfectly, and are now raising children of their own. The automobile we were driving this time was modest but very pleasant and very safe. In fact, except for me and my lovely Pat situated so peacefully at my side, nothing of that moment two weeks ago was even remotely like the distressing circumstances of three decades earlier.
Yet in my mind’s eye, for just an instant, I thought perhaps I saw on that side road an old car with a devoted young wife and two little children making the best of a bad situation there. Just ahead of them I imagined that I saw a young fellow walking toward Kanarraville, with plenty of distance still ahead of him. His shoulders seemed to be slumping a little, the weight of a young father’s fear evident in his pace. In the scriptural phrase, his hands did seem to “hang down.” In that imaginary instant, I couldn’t help calling out to him: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it—30 years of it now, and still counting. You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”

The traveler waved off most of the dinner trays during the long and tiring thirteen-hour flight from Miami, Florida, to Buenos Aires, Argentina, in October 1983. More interested in filling his mind than his stomach, he was reading a book his son had given to him on his birthday, In Search of Excellence.
Elder Charles Didier of the First Quorum of the Seventy was flying to South America as the Church’s Executive Administrator over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. Before his airplane arrived in Buenos Aires, he had read through much of the book, then taken time to rest and to consider the work awaiting him.
It was typical of the man. In every project he has undertaken for the Church since he was baptized at twenty-two in his native Belgium, Charles Didier has been thoroughly absorbed and enthusiastic—a man joyfully doing good things in life.
Born in Ixelles, Belgium, 5 October 1935, Charles Didier recalls that his father, Andre, a Belgian Army officer, was captured at the beginning of World War II. After escaping, he stayed hidden and saw his family only during occasional surprise visits. Elder Didier looks back on a time after his own ninth birthday:
“Because the secret police were looking for him [his father], we were searched—and barely escaped. We went to where he was hiding in Antwerp Province, and from there to live with my great-grandmother in Flanders.” Then Belgium was liberated. “I vividly remember the soldiers trying to get away on bicycles, the airplanes coming, the shooting, and the Allied troops coming into the village.”
Like those around him, young Charles was educated in Catholic doctrine as a boy. He attended mass regularly, the only one in his family to do so.
In 1950, while the family was living in Namur, Belgium, and Charles was finishing junior high school, two Latter-day Saint missionaries from the United States knocked on their door. His mother, Gabrielle, let them in and listened. During Easter vacation of the following year, she was baptized in a little font in Brussels, but Charles missed the baptism. He was in Rome to see the Pope on a trip organized by the Catholic church.
Although Charles resisted invitations to attend the local branch, he did attend an English club taught by the missionaries, leaving before the evening’s youth activities started because he “didn’t want to be trapped.” But he was asked to take part in a branch play, and then his mother persuaded him to attend church with her on a Sunday. Soon his sister, Jacqueline, was baptized. When Charles left home to go to the university in Liège, he says, “I attended youth activities from time to time. I did some little things all the time but did not want to participate. I was very shy. I really did not want to be in front of people.”
Then missionary Elder Dewitt Paul challenged him, asking why he would not be baptized, since he was “doing everything a member does,” Elder Didier recalls.
“I said I didn’t see the necessity. I had a good life. I could attend and not have responsibilities. He said, ‘Let’s pray about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith. Then if you have a testimony, I think you’ll recognize that you need to be baptized.’
“And so we prayed about it. I got up from that prayer with a testimony—an answer to my prayers. It was nothing like a light, a voice—just a reassuring influence: ‘Go ahead and do it. There is wisdom. This is my commandment.’” In November 1957, Charles was baptized in a swimming pool in Brussels by Elder Paul.
Traveling between Liège and Namur, he continued his studies at the University of Liège, graduating in 1959 with a degree in economics. Then he entered the reserve officer training program of the Belgian Air Force, finishing his military service as a lieutenant and radar supervisor.
A short time later, stationed only a few kilometers from Liège, he had time to go out with a brown-eyed girl he had met in the Liège Branch, Lucie Lodomez. She had served as a missionary in France with his sister Jacqueline.
When his military service was completed, Lucie and Charles were married in Liège (they were sealed in the Swiss Temple in 1962) and moved into a tiny apartment there. Charles progressed through his job with a timber products importing company, and both he and Lucie grew through Church service. He received more and more responsibility in the Church, eventually becoming president of the 100-member branch in Liège.
But after five years of working in Liège, Charles was restless. He started investigating the possibilities of teaching or continuing his education. Then came “another answer to prayer.” He was asked to move to Frankfurt, Germany, to work as assistant to John E. Carr, director of temporal affairs for the Church in Europe.
The move lasted only nine months. He was asked to go back to Liège and take over the Church distribution center. Upon his return he was immediately called again as Liège Branch president.
Then in March 1970 came the surprise of Charles Didier’s life, through a telephone call from Salt Lake City:
“It was President N. Eldon Tanner on the telephone. ‘The Lord is calling you to be a mission president. Are you ready to leave in three months and go wherever the Lord will call you?’ I said, ‘Yes.’”
Those unexpected telephone calls continued to influence his life. Three years later, shortly before he was to be released as president of the France-Switzerland Mission, there was another telephone call, this time from President Marion G. Romney. Elder Didier was called as a regional representative and at the same time appointed area manager in translation and distribution of Church materials for all of Europe.
Then, in October 1975 while he was attending conference in Salt Lake City, Elder Didier received a telephone call that President Spencer W. Kimball wanted to see him. He was called to be a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy that was to be organized.
“There are some things you plan for the future, certain things you imagine will happen to you. But when that calling of General Authority comes, you close the door and say, ‘Now I am in the hands of the Lord 100 percent. I’ll do what he asks me to do.’”
Elder Didier became the Church’s Executive Administrator for Europe, presiding over fourteen missions, from Brussels. Later, he would be assigned to supervise the Church’s activities in Canada, then, in 1981, to supervise the missions and stakes in Argentina, Paraguay, and Uruguay. With the calling of thirteen new Area Presidencies in 1984, he assumed duties as president of the South America North Area which originally included Brazil, but is now comprised of Ecuador, Venezuela, Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, Surinam, Guyana, and French Guyana. Elder Didier resides in Quito, capital of Ecuador.
Though his duties as a General Authority take a lot of time and work, he still pursues a variety of interests—including gardening, fishing, watercolor painting, cooking, and reading—because he believes that you have to keep a good balance in life. His interest in linguistics is a valuable asset; in addition to his native French, he speaks English, German, Dutch, and Spanish.
A slim, agile man, Elder Didier keeps himself in good physical condition. He believes his efforts to stay in good health help him withstand the rigors of travel required of a General Authority. He and Elder Gene R. Cook of the First Quorum of the Seventy often play racketball. Observes Elder Cook:
“He’s really a good athlete. He swims a lot, can do thirty or forty laps easily. He exercises every day.”
Part of that exercise comes through physical labor. Reed Heywood, bishop of the Didiers’ home ward (Ensign Fourth, Salt Lake Ensign Stake) recalls that when Elder Didier and his sons built their home, they hauled in rocks and built a retaining wall, working to make the yard beautiful.
“I believe in the value of physical work. I need it,” Elder Didier comments. “I am secluded in an office or in meetings when I am in Salt Lake City or in South America—for eight to nine hours every day. I have a lot of energy, so I like to spend that energy in racketball, or swimming, or painting, or gardening in the summer. I believe what President Kimball said, that we need a vegetable garden. We planted twenty-three fruit trees. I love to be back close to nature and have my hands in the soil.”
His approach to trout fishing is indicative not only of a love of nature, but also of his approach to many activities in life. He goes fishing with those who know more than he, so he can improve. “I believe I have a lot to learn, that I can learn from any individual.”
One of those he learned much from was his mother. She was, he recalls, a “great cook.” His chocolate dessert is a family tradition.
In November of 1983 he flew to California to attend the Fair Oaks Stake conference. Arriving early at the stake president’s home, he was taken on a tour of the family’s vegetable garden.
“I saw that he had leeks, a very popular vegetable in Belgium. Not having grown them before, the president wasn’t sure how to prepare them. I said, ‘Let’s make soup.’ So that Saturday evening after our conference meetings, with the stake president in the kitchen, we prepared leek soup to serve twenty-two people the next day—the high council and other stake leaders. I think I’ll be remembered there as a soup maker rather than a General Authority!”
Another thing Elder Didier shares happily is himself, in service to others. Says his son Patrick: “He will dedicate his time to help someone in need as much as he can.”
Venice Rogers, a neighbor, adds, “He is very tender with children.”
Once while the Rogers were out of town on vacation, Charles and Lucie Didier wall-papered the room of teenager Elizabeth Rogers—as a surprise. Elizabeth was overwhelmed.
Elder Didier plays his own version of “elevator” with the children of another neighbor. When they push the top button on his suit coat, he lifts them up. When they push the bottom button, he puts them back down.
One of the ways Elder Didier serves is through doing “missionary work” for his ancestors. During the past few years, he has spent many hours in the genealogical library researching his parents’ and wife’s family lines, sometimes spending two to three hours at night. “I’m still working on this, but I have had some real success. We have all the information to finish our four-generation sheets. The next step is to present it to the temple.”
Despite his accomplishments, Elder Didier sees much in which he could improve.
Being a General Authority, he concedes, is “a daily examination for you and your family members.”
“You are an official representative of the Church. Usually members think you know everything, which is not the case. You always have to try to keep up with the sacred calling and live up to the expectations of the people, as well as the expectations of the Lord, which are much more important. That is quite a challenge.”
With that challenge in mind, what are his goals?
First, to be able to give his family the best of himself.
Second, “to represent the Lord the way he would like me to represent him, to establish his kingdom the way he would establish it.”

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

The summer after I turned 16, I saw my mother trying on one of my father’s old coats. “Money is tight again this year,” she said, “and mine’s worn out.” Right then, I knew I needed to help her. But how?
My first thought was that I could save enough money to surprise her with a new coat. After all, I was the oldest. But the longer I thought about it, the more I sensed there was one thing missing from my plan—one thing that would make the surprise even better. I should invite my two teenage sisters and my 11-year-old brother to help me.
“How about we each donate 10 percent of whatever we earn?” I said, after explaining the problem to them.
“I don’t make much money,” my brother said.
“That’s okay. If you make $1.00 and put in 10 cents, then you’ll have done your part.”
“We’ll go together to buy the coat, right?” asked one of my sisters.
“Yes, at Christmas.”
They looked at each other. “Let’s do it.”
For the next several months, we worked and saved for Mom’s surprise. Sometimes we gave more than 10 percent, and sometimes 10 percent was almost more than we could give after already paying 10 percent for tithing. But no matter how hard it was, we stuck to our commitment. I particularly remember one hot afternoon when my brother, dirty and sweaty from several hours of lawn mowing, came into my bedroom and handed me a dollar. I felt like I had just received the widow’s mite (see Mark 12:41–44).
Finally, one week before Christmas, we counted our money and discovered we had more than enough for the coat, so much more, in fact, that we could buy gifts for everyone in our family. We could hardly wait to see their faces when they found their surprises.
On Christmas morning, we got up before our parents. When my youngest sisters saw the dresses we had bought for them, they twirled around the room with them, saying, “Thank you, thank you!”
“Wow, thanks for the toy cars, Mom and Dad!” my eight-year-old brother shouted as he examined his gift.
“What’s going on?” Dad called from the bedroom.
“We didn’t get you that!” Mom added.
Within moments, they were beside us, staring in disbelief.
Then Mom saw her coat. She picked it up. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Who did this?”
We didn’t answer. We wanted it to remain a secret. Besides, I don’t think we could have spoken if we’d tried.
That morning, my sisters, brother, and I felt the true spirit of Christmas, the one that comes from service and sacrifice. And we felt something else too—unity. We had worked together to reach a common goal. We had done it without complaint, and we had each given the best we had. For those few months, we had become one.
And that was the best surprise of all.

In 1986, I was invited to give a special lecture at a university in Accra, Ghana. There I met a number of dignitaries, including an African tribal king. As we visited prior to the lecture, the king spoke to me only through his linguist, who then translated for me. I responded to the linguist, and the linguist then translated my responses to the king.
After my lecture, the king made his way directly to me, but this time without his linguist. To my surprise, he spoke in perfect English—the Queen’s English, I might add!
The king seemed puzzled. “Just who are you?” he asked.
I replied, “I am an ordained Apostle of Jesus Christ.”
The king asked, “What can you teach me about Jesus Christ?”
I responded with a question: “May I ask what you already know about Him?”
The king’s response revealed he was a serious student of the Bible and one who loved the Lord.
I then asked if he knew about the ministry of Jesus Christ to the people of ancient America.
As I expected, he did not.
I explained that after the Savior’s Crucifixion and Resurrection, He came to the people of ancient America, where He taught His gospel. He organized His Church and asked His disciples to keep a record of His ministry among them.
“That record,” I continued, “is what we know as the Book of Mormon. It is another testament of Jesus Christ. It is a companion scripture to the Holy Bible.”
At this point, the king became very interested. I turned to the mission president accompanying me and asked if he had an extra copy of the Book of Mormon with him. He pulled one from his briefcase.
I opened it to 3 Nephi chapter 11, and together the king and I read the Savior’s sermon to the Nephites. I then presented the copy of the Book of Mormon to him. His response lodged in my mind and heart forever: “You could have given me diamonds or rubies, but nothing is more precious to me than this additional knowledge about the Lord Jesus Christ.”
After experiencing the power of the Savior’s words in 3 Nephi, the king proclaimed, “If I am converted and join the Church, I will bring my whole tribe with me.”
“Oh, King,” I said, “it doesn’t work that way. Conversion is an individual matter. The Savior ministered to the Nephites one by one. Each individual receives a witness and testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

I work at a summer camp. Kids come for five days, and we do lots of educational activities with them. We cut and decorate wood cuts from real logs, play in the stream and learn about aquatic life, find and collect wildflowers, go on hikes, learn about the mining history of the town, and lots of other super fun stuff.
At the end of the week, we do an activity called “affirmations.” The kids sit in a circle and close their eyes. They take turns getting up and tapping other kids on the shoulder as the counselors say different things like “This person helped me feel welcome,” or “This person helped me cut wood.” At the end of the activity, we say, “This person has potential,” or “This person has a bright future.” Then the counselors tap every single kid.
One week, as I was tapping the kids and saying awesome things about them, I felt the Spirit witness to me that they were all children of God. I didn’t even know all of them that well, but I felt such love for them. It was a really neat experience that witnessed to me that everyone we interact with really is a child of God. He really does care about each of us.
Stephen J., Utah, USA

About six months after we were married my husband Boysie and I moved into a new ward in his hometown, Kaneohe. I was born and raised on Maui, majority of my immediate family lived there, more specifically, my mom. We had a great relationship, but it was long distance and the only way for me to communicate was to write letters. It was a hard and lonely time. We had no cell phones at that time. Calling long distance was expensive, especially for us as a young couple with just one income. I didn’t know my in-laws well, or the neighbors or the city. I was insecure and somewhat fearful of the unknown. My husband was working full time and my close friends were in the mainland attending college or lived on another island.

Heavenly Father knew that I needed the same thing as Sister Beck and he provided and angel in my life. Enter Sister Betty Poliahu, Kaneohe 2nd Ward Relief Society President. She is one of the sweetest and kindest women I’ve ever met in my life. She welcomed me into Relief Society with open arms, made me feel accepted and loved. She, along with the other sisters of that ward took me under their wing, taught, loved and nurtured me. They shared their wisdom and talents allowing me to develop my skills and I learned how to cook, to budget, to teach, to be a better wife and mother. I learned how valuable and essential Relief Society and that divine sisterhood was to developing and understanding my role as a beloved daughter of God. Those experiences with that wonderful, loving ward grounded me. I lived in Kaneohe II Ward for about seven precious years before moving to Kahuku. I feel that warmth and acceptance when I return there to attend church with my mother-in-law, Helene. I feel the bonding and feel that special connection every Tuesday, late afternoon when I see Sister Betty Poliahu at the temple. She’s leaving the day shift and I’m coming to work at the night shift. It feels so symbolic and natural to me as if that nurturing relationship continues, it didn’t skip a beat and I continue to be influenced by her spirit of goodness, service and dedication to the Lord. To all those wonderful Kaneohe Ward members, mahalo nui loa.

Although born and raised in the Church, I went to a Catholic university at the age of seventeen—straight from BYU to Gonzaga University at Spokane, Washington. Every professor of mine was a Jesuit priest, wearing the long black, full-length cassock—every one a Ph.D., and every one a great Christian gentleman. I want it understood, I went there scared to death, the only Latter-day Saint boy on the entire campus. They knew that I was a Latter-day Saint. But they didn’t ridicule my church, or me, and they gave me great strength and support. I came to see them as great spiritual leaders—making tremendous sacrifices in their own lives.

I decided it was finally time to read the many talks and scriptures our priesthood quorum leaders had asked us to read before camp. Glancing over all the material without much enthusiasm, I saw an article on repentance.
To a 15-year-old boy, the article was not particularly awe-inspiring. It seemed to simply reinforce what I heard in Sunday School on a regular basis. However, it was while reading the message that I realized I never really prayed with the kind of conviction described in the passage. I got off my bed where I had been reading, closed my door, knelt, and began to pray. I figured that I would lose nothing in the attempt.
Although my prayer began as somewhat of a rehearsed statement, I decided to stay on my knees until I felt like I had poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. The longer I prayed, the more sincere my outpourings became. And when I was finished, I knew I had a Father who listened and cared, and I knew I had a purpose on this earth. For the first time in my life, I thought I had truly become a convert to the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
When the pressures of life become overwhelming, I think of those few minutes when I felt so connected to my Father in Heaven. I can still feel that same closeness when I devote myself to prayer, go to the temple, and especially when I perform service in His name. I love this gospel of Jesus Christ.