Gospel Story Finder

I credit the Church for helping me become a better reader and student. When the elders read things to me, we would discuss them but by the next week, I could not remember what we had talked about. Reading was hard, but they gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon and taught me the plan of salvation. I sought for help from friends to memorize the plan of salvation, and the missionaries were excited about this. My reading and expression got better through the scripture reading, that was the beginning of my path to becoming an average student.

As a very little boy, Tam Hoi Hoon loved to climb. He would climb streetlamps and even palm trees with his bare hands! His favorite class in preschool was gymnastics. At the time, the Tam family lived in Hawaii, where Brother Tam was studying at the university.
When his family moved back to Hong Kong, Hoi Hoon joined the Hong Kong Amateur Gymnastic Association. After joining the team, he won the 2001 Hong Kong Gymnastics Competition. Now age 10 and a member of the Aberdeen Ward, Hong Kong Island Stake, Hoi Hoon is setting an example through his gymnastics and his beliefs.

The first time I went duck hunting, I was ten years old. My dad wanted to spend some time with his boys because his Church job and his job as a lawyer had taken so much of his time. He suggested that we go duck hunting at a lake an hour outside of St. George, Utah. My older brother, Michael, was excited about the trip. I didn’t know what to expect, but I felt happy to sit alongside my brother and my dad in the pickup truck.
When we got there, we crawled on our hands and knees to the edge of the lake. The frozen ground felt hard underneath my hands. I peered over the water, looking for some ducks. My fourteen-year-old brother stood up and shot at the few birds on the lake as they were taking off. When the birds cleared away from the lake, I could see one dark bird left floating on the water. My dad realized that we didn’t have a dog to fetch the dead duck out of the water, so he said that he would get it.
The water was freezing at that time of year, and my brother and I were thankful that he had volunteered. Dad took off his shoes and his jacket and waded into the lake. He swam until he reached some reeds, where he stopped to grab onto them to catch his breath. Unfortunately the reeds were not strong enough to hold him up, so he treaded water for a while.
When he finally made it to the bird, he held it up and called to us, “It’s a mud hen.”
A mud hen is different from a duck because it is not good to eat. My brother groaned and shook his head at the effort Dad had made for an uneatable mud hen.
Dad started to swim back. Suddenly he yelled that he was in trouble. He could not get enough air, and he couldn’t swim anymore. I can still remember seeing him sink in the water. He came up again and thrashed around in an effort to stay afloat.
“We have to go get him!” Michael cried. He had earned swimming and life-saving merit badges and had the presence of mind to realize this was an emergency.
Fear flashed through my body. I began to take off my shoes and jacket because I thought that I shouldn’t try to swim with all my clothes on. Meanwhile, Michael could see that there was no time to take off anything. So with all of his clothes on, he dove into the water and swam out just before Dad went under for the second time. He grabbed Dad and used the Boy Scout lifesaving technique to bring him back to the shore.
When they finally reached the shore, they were both breathing heavily. Dad had inhaled a lot of freezing water and felt so tired that he could barely walk. My brother and I wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm during the drive home. I knew that Dad had come very close to drowning. My heart thumped inside my chest the entire ride home because I felt so scared.
My older brother saved Dad’s life. As I watched Michael swim out to save Dad, I felt very thankful that my brother had learned what to do in Scouts. At age ten, I knew that I could not have saved my dad. I was not strong enough, I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do even if I had gone out there. Michael did. Later, the Boy Scouts of America awarded him its highest honor—a gold medal for saving a life.

Shana Canada, a Beehive in the Titusville Ward, Cocoa Florida Stake, took action when the ducks near her home were being hit by passing cars. She headed straight for city hall and requested that a “duck crossing” sign be placed near their pond.

The city council members were so impressed with her concern for the ducks’ safety that they placed signs to warn motorists of the web-footed pedestrians.

When Shana is not out lobbying, she can usually be found working to make the grade at school so she can reach her goal to become a veterinarian.

And that brings me to my wife, Elisa. I remember the first time I met her. As a favor to a friend, I had gone to her home to pick up her sister, Frances. Elisa opened the door, and at least for me, it was love at first sight.

I think she must have felt something too, for the first words I ever remember her saying were, “I knew who you was.”

Elisa was an English major.

To this day I still cherish those five words as some of the most beautiful in human language.

She was my strength and my joy. Because of her, I am a better man, husband, and father. We married, had eight children, and walked together through 65 years of life.

I owe more to my wife than I can possibly express. I don’t know if there ever was a perfect marriage, but, from my perspective, I think ours was.

A girl in my class at school was saying the Lord’s name in vain. I didn’t like it. When we went to recess I wanted to ask her to stop saying it, but I was very nervous. I finally got up my courage and said, “Will you please stop saying that word?”
She said, “I can say it if I want to,” and she said it again in my face. I asked her again to please not say it in front of me, and she said, “OK.” Since then I haven’t heard her say it.

It was Christmas Eve. Grandpa had come down to our house to get Mama to cut his hair. He was going into town for a little celebrating, so he asked her to also trim his eyebrows. They were so overgrown that they looked like pyracantha at a vacant lot. Grandpa’s eyes were deep set and penetrating—mostly serious except when he was whistling “Strawberry Roan” or “Big Rock Candy Mountain.” Grandpa had donned his best bib overalls with white and blue stripes. “They are a little classier,” he used to say. He wore his suit coat and red tie with matching handkerchief.
Grandpa Jode Howes was a sheepherder; but since this is going to be a Christmas story, let’s call him a shepherd. He was a good shepherd, too. He prided himself on a well-trained dog and a clean camp.
Grandpa had found Grandma in good shape when he got home from camp. There was still flour in the bin, apples in the cellar, jerky in the barn, and love in her heart. Oh, the farm wasn’t Grandma’s first love. When she met Grandpa Jode, she was an aristocrat—a red-headed, curly-lashed school mistress who came down to our parts to spend the winter; and well, she spent plenty of winters and had wintered well. Her hair had been mixed with white, and now that she was “pink haired,” some of “the girls” wondered if Grandma might be a phony. But Grandma wasn’t phony; she was real and had a real big heart. It had to be big to support her stature. We all called her “Big Grandma.” This referred to her “insides” as well as her “outs.”
In town during shopping, Grandpa heard that his friend Sim had some horses he wanted Grandpa to see. So Grandpa rode to the corrals, made a good inspection, and was about to throw a bale of hay out to the animals for the night when he saw a slight figure crouching behind the bale where a new lamb fed. It was a boy who seemed to be hiding.
“Come out, son,” Grandpa said. “What goes with you, lad? Can I help you?” The boy only shook his head and trembled. Sim reported that the last traders through town had left the kid and said they didn’t want him.
“Get rid of him for us, can you, Sim?”
“Well, by golly,” Grandpa Jode had said, “I can’t see much use for any of the horses, but I’ll take the kid.”
After a little coaxing, the boy got into the DeSoto with Grandpa and they started for home.
“You’ve got a name, haven’t you, boy?” Grandpa asked. “Where are you from? I’ve got a nice bed for a guy like you at home—for a guy with a name.”
After some warm pats on the knee and kindly smiles, the little urchin uttered, “My name’s Hady.”
“Hady,” Grandpa repeated, “now that’s a right good name. Where did you get that one?” He laughed, tousling the boy’s curly locks, with his gnarled hand.
Silence from the boy.
“From your mom, I bet,” Grandpa assured him.
Hady’s eyes dropped.
“Your dad read it in a story?”
“No, no!” Hady screamed and bit Grandpa’s hand.
“Well,” Grandpa said with a laugh, patting Hady’s little legs, “your name has as much snap as your bite, and I like them both. Hady is fine for me. And you know what? That’s what all of us at our house are going to call you.” Grandpa’s voice softened and dropped a few decibels as it often did when he got dead serious, and he whispered, “And it means something because I found you like a surprise Christmas package behind a bale of hay. And you know what else? You’re going to like that name and all of us, too.”
Grandpa’s DeSoto turned down the lane to the house. When the car was parked, Grandpa and the little fellow entered the kitchen. Hady ducked his head to avoid the blinding brightness of the electric lights and scampered behind the Heatrola in Big Grandma’s living room. It was there that he stayed, trembling like the aspen leaves that sheltered the sheep camp. But it was not the gentle wind that made him shake. It was there behind the Heatrola that he stayed during the festivities, occasionally popping his little head out (when he was quite certain that no one was watching) to survey the new family that was to be his. If his eyes met those of another, he quickly ducked away in retreat.
Most of the kids didn’t notice Hady during the first part of the evening, until we saw Grandpa rolling peanuts behind the Heatrola. They didn’t roll out the other side, and the shells didn’t pile up. It was a clean sweep; Hady had eaten them shell and all.
There seemed to be some quiet muttering about the child but nothing strained nor curious. Grandpa told us that he had brought us home a new friend. He did that quite often. Once it was a Collie dog; another time he carried home a little lame lamb and said he hoped that we’d take good care of each other.
I watched Mama’s face to see if I’d like the boy, and I did. I put my hand out to see if he was real, but Mama told me not to stare and please not touch the burrs in his long, snarled curls.
“And if you sniff a new sort of odor—well, sheep smell that way,” Mama carefully explained as she made her eyes twinkle and her nose wrinkle. Then she coaxed the urchin from his hiding place behind the Heatrola to be “spotted off.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“None of your business.”
“Bet you can’t read,” I nipped, and Mama pulled me close under one arm and the kid under the other.
“He looks about the right age to try though,” Mama said, refereeing eye glances.
“Yeah, I’m about ready to be learning.”
Mama lifted up Hady’s long hair and washed his neck. It made the air smell like our kitchen when Mama presses Daddy’s wool suit with a wet rag, but her face looked happy and her nose kept straight out as she asked me to run for the Bon Ami. I wished afterward that I hadn’t said anything about stinking. Mama hated the word and always asked us to use smell instead. Hady must have found that word unwelcome also, for it drove him back behind the shelter of the stove.
Big Grandma, her pink hair freshly finger-waved and her silk blouse newly beaded, took her place in the chair by the glittering tree and turned out the lights. Grandpa, in his bib overalls, crisp white shirt, and bright red tie told the story of Christmas, using cutouts and a flash light. Then in black silence he gave a Christmas prayer.
“Oh, Lord, we thank thee for the blessings of this season, for the gift of thy Son, the Good Shepherd, who calls us all to his fold. We thank thee for our flocks and our fields and the bounties of life, for the sheep and the shepherd. Keep us safely in the fold we pray, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
When the lights were turned on again, we all knew that it was “present-getting time in the old corral,” as Grandpa joked.
During the prayer all was dark, and Hady crawled from behind the stove and stayed out by the side to see the Christmas story and watch the gifts being unwrapped. Big Grandma read the names out. “Merry Christmas to our fine missionary.” That was Paul, my cousin. “Merry Christmas to our little girl with Shirley Temple curls,” Grandma called. That was me, and I pranced forward with my curls like bed springs dangling down the back of my dress. “Merry Christmas to our new brother, Hady.”
This sound so frightened Hady that he retreated again to his cozy security, and Grandpa had to push the present behind to him. He looked pleased and grabbed anxiously for the gift; then he became suspicious, but mustered courage and walked to Grandma’s chair to return it. But Mama went to the tattered, beautiful waif, took his grimy little face in her kindly hands, and coaxed, “Take it, honey; you’ll like it.” She then patted his pink flushed cheeks.
Hady rubbed his fingers over the waxy glossed paper and fondled the tinseled bow, unbelieving. Carefully unwrapping the package to preserve its beauty, he revealed with delight a shiny, new, red lunch bucket. I was glad that he liked the bucket. I could tell that he did by his almost smile. But it was my lunch bucket with a red thermos and a snap cork, and I wasn’t sure that I was glad that I had said yes to Mama when she coaxed.
“But everyone here will have a present—everyone but Hady.”
“It’s mine. I bought it with my own weeding money (20 rows of corn) to take to school.”
“Well, next year they’ll be making better buckets; and we can get you another,” Mother consoled.
I really didn’t want to give it, but I couldn’t stand to see Mama’s face disappointed, so I did.
Hady clutched my lunch bucket, my shiny red bucket, like it was all his—his first personally owned, somebody-gave-you present.
Cousin Jimmy stared at the bucket, the tattered clothes, and the long, straggly curls and hissed, “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” and ran his fingers covetously over the edge of the opened bucket as Hady snapped the lid.
He caught Jim’s fingers and sent him yelping to Grandma. Realizing his mistake, Hady hastily retreated to the Heatrola where he felt warm, secure, justified, fortified, and even armed in the event that it became necessary to defend his possession again.
“Let’s have Jana play carols on her violin while we sing,” everyone demanded. Then Grandma served carrot pudding with caramel sauce, and the festivities were over. As we went into the chill of the night, Hady pulled on Mama’s coat to get her attention, and with downcast eyes too emotional and embarrassed to look up, he muttered, “Thank you,” pointing to the bucket held tight in his arms.
“Thanks for coming to our party,” Mama said. She always said things to make people feel right. “But I didn’t give you the present; Jana did,” and she pointed to me.
Bashfully I sidled up to the new one and whispered, “I like you to be here.”
“Oh,” was the quiet reply.
Left alone with Grandpa and Grandma, Hady looked about shyly and said to Big Grandma, who was gathering up crumpled paper, “Hey, you, where does a fellow hit the hay around here?”
Grandma showed him to the cold, east bedroom. It was the guest room where all us kids slept overnight with Grandpa. Later when Big Grandma went into the bedroom to check his sleep, Hady still clutched the handle of the red lunch bucket tight in his fist as it rested on the pillow beside him. Sniffles broke the silence of the room, and soft tender sobs indicated the sweet comfort of tears.
Hady’s identity was never really certain. He signed his name Hady Howes, but when he got angry, he’d yell at Grandma, saying, “Hey, you, I’m not your boy. I’m Hady Querry. Querry is my name.”
We never knew if that was really his name. We thought maybe he’d tell us when he turned 16 and got his driver’s license, but when he found out he’d have to apply for it in his own name, he never did.
Hady stayed with us for exactly ten years. I remember because he had come on Christmas and he left on Christmas, too. He left no note, not a word to Grandpa or Grandma. Their Little Boy Blue had gone as strangely as he had come, on Christmas.
We all missed Hady, but I did especially. We had herded cows along the ditch bank together, picked green apples from the manure spreader, ridden horses to the mountains to round up cattle, churned butter, made wire fly traps, plowed fields, bottled fruit, and watered lucerne in the dead of the night.
Hady had become a part of me, and the cold, east bedroom echoed with emptiness. But the passing of 20 years eventually eased the loneliness into forgetting.
I was stringing twinkle lights on the entrance sign of our newly acquired business, “Pleasant Way Trailer Court.” This year the pines on either side of the neon sign were large enough to be decorated impressively. The tenants had agreed that the entire mobile community should be connected with long strings of lights, and I liked that cozy, friendly feeling. Music ran through the courtyard.
Peace and goodwill filled my heart as I rang the bell of trailer No. 15. It was answered by a slightly grayed, handsome man with wavy hair. He smiled shyly, apologizing for the Christmas wreath that had fallen as I knocked. His eyes were soft and blue.
That voice, that man—could it be! It was! “Hady!” I cried. “Aren’t you Hady?”
He looked with a strange but certain recognition; then he threw his arms around me. “It’s you—you’re Jana!”
“Do you remember?” I asked.
“Jana,” Hady’s voice trembled, “how could I forget? You’ve come at Christmastime. How did you know?”
Holding me in a warm embrace, he recalled, “You were the first person ever to offer me love and the first to ever give me a present.” Then, laughingly, he added, “Remember that most wonderful shiny red lunch bucket, the first possession I ever called mine?”
Then still standing in the doorway with the Christmas music from the court ringing out, he remembered nostalgically, “You were the first to offer friendship to me—a kid who had never known love, love of any kind, Jana.”
As the music of the court swelled, so did the love in the hearts of two who knew the meaning of the words:
“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: … thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.” (Matt. 25:35.)
A blithe, beautiful 16-year-old slipped shyly into the room, her long curls sweeping the table top, her violin under her arm.
“I’m ready, Daddy,” she said, and then in recognition of me added, “Are you Daddy’s friend? Merry Christmas, I’m Jana.”
“Oh yes, my darling,” I exclaimed thrillingly, tears suddenly swelling, “and so am I.”

I had a sense of this truth a few months ago when I was walking one day and suddenly my sight became blurry, dark, and wavy. I was scared. Then the doctors told me, “If you don’t begin treatment immediately, you may lose your sight even in a matter of weeks.” I was even more scared.
And then they said, “You need intravitreal injections—injections right in the eye, wide-open eye—every four weeks for the rest of your life.”
That was an uncomfortable wake-up call.
Then a reflection came in the form of a question. I asked myself, “OK! My physical sight is not good, but what about my spiritual vision? Do I need any treatment there? And what does it mean to have a clear spiritual vision?”
So is my spiritual sight clear as I get my eye injections? Well, who am I to say? But I am grateful for what I see.
I clearly see the hand of the Lord in this sacred work and in my life.
I see the faith of many wherever I go who strengthen my own faith.
I see angels all around me.
I see the faith of many who don’t see the Lord physically but recognize Him spiritually, because they know Him intimately.
I testify that this gospel is the answer for everything, because Jesus Christ is the answer for everyone. I am grateful for what I can see as I follow my Savior.

Meanwhile, Elder Ott’s memory was kindly preserved by the German Saints. Shortly after Joseph’s death, the president of the European Mission and several elders of the Church conducted a brief graveside service and dedicated the grave. A monument, paid for by local contributions, was erected on the grave site. Constructed of white marble, the monument stood 1.6 meters high, and carried the inscription:
In Memory
of the Missionary
of The Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-day Saints
Joseph A. Ott
Born Dec. 12, 1870
Virgin City, Utah
Died Jan. 10, 1896 in Dresden
Dedicated to Him
by His Fellow Believers
The German Saints sent a large photograph of the tombstone to the Ott family. For many years it was prominently displayed in the home of Joseph’s parents, and later in his sister’s home. Several years after his death, the Church offered to send Joseph’s remains home for burial in his home town. However, after careful thought and prayer, the family decided to leave the body in Germany, where his mission had tragically ended before it began.

During the period 1959 to 1962, I had the privilege to preside over the Canadian Mission, with headquarters in Toronto, Canada. There Sister Monson and I had the wonderful opportunity of working with 450 of the finest young men and young women in all the world. From that particular experience I should like to relate an experience that came to Sister Monson that had far-reaching significance. One Sunday she was the only person in a usually very busy mission home. The telephone rang, and the person who was on the other end of the line spoke with a Dutch accent and asked the question, “Is this the headquarters of the Mormon Church?” Sister Monson assured her that it was as far as Toronto was concerned, and then she said, “May I help you?” The party on the line said: “Yes. We have come from our native Holland, where we’ve had an opportunity to learn something about the Mormons. We’d like to know more.” Sister Monson, being a good missionary, said, “We can help you.” Then the lovely lady who had called said, “We have chicken pox in our home; and if you could wait until the children are better, we’d love to have the missionaries call.” Sister Monson said that she would arrange this, and that terminated the conversation.
Excitedly she told the two missionaries on our staff, “Here is a golden referral,” and the missionaries agreed. Then, as some missionaries do, they procrastinated calling upon the family. Days became weeks, and the weeks became several. Sister Monson would say, “Are you going to call on that Dutch family tonight, elders?” And they would respond, “Well, we’re too busy tonight, but we’re going to get around to it.” After a few more days Sister Monson would say, “What about my Dutch family? Are you going to call on them tonight?” Again the reply, “Well, we’re too busy tonight, but we’re going to work it into our schedule.” Finally Sister Monson said, “If you aren’t able to call on the Dutch family tonight, my husband and I are going to call on the family,” and the elders replied, “Well, we’ll work it into our schedule tonight.”
And thus they called on a lovely family. They taught them the gospel. Each person in the family became a member of the Church. The family was the Jacob de Jager family. Brother de Jager became the president of an elders quorum. His employer, the gigantic Phillips Company, then transferred him to Mexico, where he served the Church with distinction. Later he became the counselor to several mission presidents in Holland; he then became a Regional Representative of the Twelve; he then became a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy, serving as the executive administrator of the work in Southeast Asia.
I ask the question: Was it an important decision that was made on the part of the missionaries to call on the de Jagers? Was it an important decision for Sister Monson to say, “Tonight is the night or else!” Was it an important decision for the de Jagers to telephone mission headquarters in Toronto, Canada, and say, “Could we have the missionaries come to our home?” I bear testimony that these decisions had eternal consequences, not only for the de Jagers, but for many other people as well, for here is a man who can teach the gospel in English, in Dutch, in German, in Spanish, and in Indonesian, and he now is learning to preach the gospel in Chinese. I ask the question, “What will be our faith?”

Shortly after my daughter, the first of our three children, was born, my wife and I purchased a piano. We hoped she would have musical talent like her grandfather—a fine composer and pianist. I particularly liked to imagine her playing the piano at church, accompanying the congregation. This would please our Father in Heaven, I thought. And the gift of music would bless our family.
Several years passed, with the piano serving no purpose other than decorating our living room. One day my father-in-law offered to teach me to read music. At some point in the future, he said, I might even be able to play a few simple pieces. I considered the very idea a joke—and not a very good one. I had never even considered that I might have musical talent. Nevertheless, he began to work with me. Unfortunately, I found the study of music unpleasant and even painful, and I quit studying about six months later. In time, I forgot what little I had learned.
In 1983 our daughter turned eight, and my wife and I felt she was old enough to begin music lessons. Unfortunately, she did not enjoy the lessons any more than I had. Since we had already paid for a month of lessons, I decided to take the remaining lessons myself. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the lessons, and after they ended, I continued to practice on my own. My progress was slow, but by the time the Christmas season came around, I could almost play six different hymns.
When the bishop visited us during the Christmas holidays, I played “Away in a Manger” (Hymns, number 206) and asked him to sing along. We had to start over several times because I made so many mistakes, but eventually we finished the carol. The bishop encouraged me to keep practicing and to learn a sacrament hymn. I began to practice very faithfully, and to my surprise, I found that practicing was no longer drudgery. I had a goal for myself—to be able to play at church.
On one occasion while I was practicing I distinctly heard a voice singing the melody of the hymn I was playing. A wave of emotion swept over me, and I felt that my Father in Heaven was pleased with my efforts.
Several months passed, and I continued to practice devotedly. One Sunday I went to church early to practice. The room was quite dark and I couldn’t see well, but I sensed that someone was watching me. Soon the bishop stepped forward. He told me he had been listening, and he felt I was ready to play for Church meetings. I played the piano for the Madrid Second Ward that very day. A few days later, I was officially set apart as the ward pianist.
By this time practicing was exciting, and I was surprised at how quickly I was able to learn the hymns. I worked hard, but I realized that my efforts were being magnified by the Holy Ghost. My Heavenly Father had prepared me little by little for this calling and was now helping me fulfill it.
Today, playing the piano continues to be a great joy. I play for priesthood meetings in the Madrid Third Branch, where I am the branch president. My daughter also eventually resumed her music studies and has served as branch pianist. She is now married and lives in Madrid, Spain.
Often as I play I think of the Lord’s words: “My soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12). I am grateful that my Heavenly Father prepared me with a desire and blessed me with the ability to play the hymns of the Church. They are truly a prayer unto him.

Maybe each of us needs to stop amidst our busy, dashing, breathless lives—even amidst our many meetings. It recalls to mind an experience—perhaps you know it—of a little inquisitive boy who came to church with his father, and as they walked into the foyer, the boy noticed the usual trophy case over which were placed several large plaques. Curiosity got to the little boy. He pulled on his dad’s coattail and said, “Dad, what’s that one?”

The father moved a little closer and read the inscription, patted his boy on the head, and said, “Son, that’s a plaque honoring those who died in the service.”

To which the little boy said, “Morning or evening?”

Then a year or two ago, almost 30 years after Evan’s death, I dreamed that I was driving my car on a business trip up old Highway 101 in northern California, near the Oregon border.
I was traveling along admiring the beautiful coastal view. I had the radio on, and I was just driving along in the dream.
Suddenly, I took my car into a rather sharp bend. As I did so, coming toward me on the ocean’s side of the road, on a packed ten-speed bicycle, was Evan. He was a full-grown adult, but I recognized him immediately.
Quickly I found a wide spot in the road where I could turn around, and I went back. He had seen me too and had stopped, hoping that I would turn around.
I jumped out of the car and raced to him, and we hugged and danced like two little boys who had just captured their first pollywogs. Then we stood arm-in-arm, face-to-face, with the mighty Pacific Ocean as a backdrop and visited eagerly for about 15 minutes.
Never mentioning death, or “it’s good to see you after all of these years,” or anything like that, he finally said to me, “Well, I’ve got to be going.”
Knowing and feeling that to be true, I said to him, “Where are you headed?”
“To take care of some business,” he stated simply. I knew better than to ask any more. He was about his Father’s business. My heart told me so. I know that to be true of Jared also.
I still remember how wonderful it felt in that dream to see Evan again, to hug him and talk with him after all those years since he died. The Spirit bore witness to me that Evan and I will meet again someday and that meeting will be as sweet and natural as it was in that wonderful dream.

One day I met a young lady from Chile working as an usher during the open house. She was very excited and offered to help wherever she was needed. She told me she was in the United States sightseeing for only a few weeks, and she would soon be returning to her country. I asked her how long she had been a member of the Church and was astonished when she told me she hadn’t been baptized yet.
She must have noticed I was speechless, so she told me her story. On the second day of her vacation, she had seen an ad in the newspaper announcing the temple open house. She was curious and decided to visit. During the tour she felt so moved by the beauty and peace she felt that she could not hold back her tears. When the tour was over, she asked the missionaries to tell her more about the Church. After being taught, she made the decision to be baptized. She had come here on vacation, and the Lord prepared a way for her to hear the gospel. And even though she wasn’t a member yet, she had asked to work as an usher for the open house!

We so often read about the widow who placed into the treasury her mite (see Mark 12:41–42), I suppose bitterly embarrassed as she did it for fear that it was such a little bit to be given. Well, I saw a widow come before the bishop at tithing settlement and say, “That is my full tithing, $55.00.” Her income then would have been $550. When you subtract the $55, you’re down to $495. With a sweet, humble attitude she said, “That’s all there was, bishop, but it is a full tithing.” And we talk about poverty at the $4,500 level and now $7,500! I’m not certain we understand. There are those who have poverty of the soul, those who have poverty of the spirit—and then there are those who are rich with the spirit, as this sweet sister.

Sophie helped Mama clean their home. The missionaries were visiting today. They were welcome visitors in Sophie’s home in Colombia. Mama prepared a special meal: tamales, rice, and corn with peppers.
The missionaries had taught Sophie’s family about Jesus Christ and His Church. Just two weeks ago Elder Kraig and his new companion, Elder Jessen, had baptized Sophie, her parents, and her two older brothers. Already, Sophie felt the difference in their family. There was more laughing, singing, and praying.
During the meal Sophie listened to her parents and brothers discuss the scriptures with the missionaries. After the dishes were cleared away, Elder Kraig said, “I will be going home next week.”
Sophie hadn’t realized he would be leaving so soon. Tears crowded the corners of her eyes. Sophie glanced at her brothers. They were near tears too.
Elder Kraig sniffled a couple of times. “I have something for you,” he said to Papa. He pulled a package from his backpack. “These are for you and your sons.”
Papa opened the box and pulled out six white Sunday shirts. For a long moment he was silent. “We cannot accept so fine a gift,” he said at last.
Sophie heard the regret in Papa’s voice. Their family did not have white shirts for Papa and the boys, and Sophie knew Papa wanted to show respect by dressing in white shirts when they went to church.
“I will not need so many shirts when I go home,” Elder Kraig said. “You will be doing me a favor by keeping them.”
“But I have nothing for you,” Papa said. He pointed to the Book of Mormon. “You have already given us the most precious gift. You brought us the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The next day Sophie decided to make something for Elder Kraig. After talking with Mama, she decided to make a small woven blanket called a serape. She borrowed her mother’s loom, chose the colors of yarn, and worked on it each day after school and chores. When her fingers fumbled, she carefully undid the strands and started over.
At last the serape was finished. She hoped Elder Kraig would like the colors she had woven together. She wrapped the serape in brown paper.
On the day of Elder Kraig’s last visit to their home, Sophie presented her gift.
“Thank you, Sophie,” Elder Kraig said. Tears shone in his eyes. “I will never forget you or your family.”
“And we will never forget you,” Sophie said.

After two difficult years at Winter Quarters, Nebraska, Mary Fielding Smith was anxious to follow the Saints west with her family. Besides the children of her martyred husband, Hyrum, Mary’s household included several others for whom she felt responsible. By the spring of 1848 Mary had managed to acquired seven dilapidated wagons, pulled by mismatched teams of calves and young steers yoked together with a few oxen. Urged on by her faith and determination, the caravan hurried to catch up with the other emigrants, three days away at Elk Horn.
At Elk Horn the man in charge said …
“You will be a burden on the company the whole way, and I will have to carry you along or leave you!”
Not knowing Mary’s faith, the man was surprised and resentful at her answer …
“I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.”
Midway between the Platte and Sweetwater rivers, one of the Smiths’ plodding oxen lay down in the yoke as though it had been poisoned.
“I told you that you would have to be helped and that you would be a burden.”
But Mary calmly asked her brother and a neighbor to administer to the ox.
Within a few moments, the animal was up and pulling his load. Two other times the Smiths’ animals were administered to and healed.
It was a difficult journey under the hot blistering sun …
But eventually the company struggled to the top of east mountain.
“Look mother, there it is!”
That night the company camped at the base of Little Mountain.
When the order was given to roll in the morning, the Smiths met with still another disappointment—most of their teams had strayed away. The supervisor, anxious that Mary’s promise not come true, ordered the company to leave anyway.
“Forward, ho!”
Although it was a beautiful sunny September day, a dark thundercloud formed over the final hill the company was ascending before entering the valley.
Suddenly, a violent storm broke! The teams became unmanageable and the supervisor ordered them to be unhitched. Frightened, the untethered animals escaped.
Meanwhile, the Smiths’ strays were rounded up and hitched to their wagons and the storm had quieted down. When Mary’s brother Joseph asked if they should wait for the company to reassemble, she replied with well-earned independence:
“They have not waited for us, and I see no necessity for us to wait for them.”
True to her promise, Mary Fielding Smith reached the valley ahead of the company and without any help from them. She had placed her faith in the Lord, and had overcome every obstacle.
Note:
Mary’s 10-year-old son, Joseph Fielding, who drove a team to the valley as well as any man, later became the sixth president of the Church.

A few days later, Sarah and I were in the bone marrow transplant clinic, where she would receive a red blood cell transfusion. She had been premedicated for the procedure and was peacefully sleeping in my arms. I began to think intently about Sarah and how her situation was so dire: she was getting sicker and sicker by the day. Parts of her body had quit functioning altogether. Her red blood count had fallen drastically; she had no white blood count to speak of and would also be receiving a platelet transfusion before the day was finished. She was lethargic and weaker than normal, and her appearance was paler. Without new red blood cells to revive her body, life would eventually slip away.
But gratefully, I watched as precious red blood cells slowly dripped from a tiny bag and flowed through the IV tubing directly into Sarah’s body through her central line, literally offering her new life. I observed a physical transformation as Sarah’s cheeks and hands became a beautiful pink hue again. She even seemed to be breathing a little easier. Peace filled my mind as I knew that, once again, her body would be receiving its vital nourishment through the circulation of the new red blood cells. Life would continue.

The immigrant’s youthful eyes shifted to Mosiah Twiggs, the big, bearded Mormon who had rescued him that fateful night. Waves of love and gratitude rolled up the shores of Lao Moy’s sore heart and washed away his tears.
Mosiah, too, had been ensnared by dreams of gold, so he left the Salt Lake Valley settlement in ’49 to fall prey to the same misfortune that had beset so many others—empty pockets and broken dreams.
After his father’s death, Lao Moy had agreed without misgivings to return with Mosiah to Salt Lake City, feeling a loyalty to the soft-spoken stranger who had risked his life to save someone he didn’t even know.
It had been a hazardous journey by wagon from the goldfields of California to the Salt Lake Valley, and they had encountered countless perils. But Mosiah’s promise that the God of Israel would protect them had planted the seeds of a testimony in the boy’s heart. Lao Moy wondered about this man who dutifully paid 10 percent of his earnings to his church for tithing.
Yet standing in the way of Lao Moy’s spiritual progress was that old bitterness born in the goldfields. It crouched like a great beast over his peace and challenged his moments of newfound joy. He had long wished to rid himself of it, to strike out against it, but something or someone always seemed to stand in the way.
Mosiah gazed curiously in the direction of the boy’s unbroken stare. “Autumn leaves die beautifully, don’t they, Lao Moy?” he said, his face lifted into the leaf-spattered wind.
“Yes,” answered Lao Moy, his hurtful thoughts suddenly scattered by his guardian’s grand vision. Autumn was indeed a beautiful time of year, especially in the canyons. Lao Moy’s eyes raced up the huge, yellow red chasms with renewed excitement. He loved these mountains. Mosiah had told him many times about them. How the erosion of long ages had cut deep canyons. How huge glaciers, descending with unyielding power, had broken loose and carried countless boulders, many of goliath size, down the immense mountain furrows. It was these isolated blocks, called erratics, that provided the supply of building stones for the Salt Lake Temple.
In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

Years ago, when I was a stake president in Paris, France, I was told that President Gordon B. Hinckley was coming to Paris for a couple of days and I was going to be his driver. I would pick him up at the airport and take him to his hotel so he could rest. The next day I would take him to do a number of visits. One visit he wanted to make was to a U.S. military cemetery, where his brother, who died of influenza during World War I, is buried.
But when I picked up President Hinckley, he didn’t look very tired. He held his cane up and said, “President Caussé! Let’s go to work!”
He wanted to go to the cemetery right away. Unfortunately, I had arranged with the director to go there the next day, so when we arrived, it was closed and nobody was there.
The next day, we were so busy that we didn’t have time to go back to the cemetery. That evening, President Hinckley handed me a $10 (US) bill and said, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to go to the cemetery. I would be very grateful if you could buy flowers and put them on my brother’s grave.”
I bought flowers, but I didn’t use that bill. The following Sunday afternoon, I went with my family and put the flowers on the grave. We took a picture of our family in front of the grave with all the flowers and sent it to President Hinckley.
I still have that $10 bill. It’s in my scriptures. If I were to ask, “What is the value of this bill?” most people would say, “Ten dollars.” But for me, it’s worth far more. This bill was worth ten dollars, but for me, it’s priceless now. It’s a memory of a moment I had with a prophet of God.