Gospel Story Finder

Much like another young man, whom I will mention later, I was 14 when I started to question religion and my faith. I attended the church of another denomination close to my house, but I felt the desire to visit many different churches.
One afternoon, I noticed two young men in dark suits and white shirts entering my neighbor’s home. These young men looked—special.
The next day I met my neighbor, Leonor Lopez, and asked her about those two men. Leonor explained that they were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She joyfully told me that her family was baptized into the Church a year earlier. Seeing my interest, Leonor invited me to meet the missionaries and learn about the Church.
Two days later, I joined the Lopez family to meet the missionaries. They introduced themselves as Elder John Messerly from Ogden, Utah, and Elder Christopher Osorio from Walnut Creek, California. I will never forget them.
Since I was only 14, Elder Messerly insisted we go next door to my home so that my mother could know what they were teaching me. There, he kindly explained that they came to share a message about Jesus Christ and asked for her permission to teach me. Mother agreed and even joined us while they taught me.
The missionaries first asked Leonor to offer a prayer. This touched me very deeply because her prayer was not a repetition of memorized words but an expression from her heart. I felt she was really talking to her Heavenly Father.
The missionaries then taught us about Jesus Christ. They showed a picture of Him that impressed me because it was a picture of the resurrected, living Christ.
They continued, teaching us how Jesus established His Church in ancient times, with Him at the head joined by twelve Apostles. They taught us about the Apostasy—how truth and Christ’s authority had been taken from the earth after His Apostles died.
They told us of a young 14-year-old boy named Joseph Smith who, during the early 1800s, visited different churches searching for truth. As time went on, Joseph became even more confused. After reading in the Bible that we can “ask of God” for wisdom, Joseph, acting in faith, retired to a grove of trees to pray and ask which church he should join.
One of the missionaries read Joseph’s account of what happened as he prayed:
“I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me.
“… When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”
During that lesson, the Spirit confirmed to me several truths.
First, God listens to all His children’s sincere prayers, and heaven is open to all—not just a few.
Second, God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are three separate beings, united in Their purpose “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.”
Third, we are created in the image of God. Our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, have bodies of flesh and bones like us, but They are glorified and perfected, and the Holy Ghost is a personage of spirit.
Fourth, through Joseph Smith, Jesus Christ restored His gospel and true Church to the earth. The priesthood authority conferred on Christ’s Apostles 2,000 years ago is the same priesthood conferred upon Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery by Peter, James, and John.
Finally, we learned about another testament of Jesus Christ: the Book of Mormon. Written by ancient prophets, it tells of the people who lived in the Americas before, during, and after the birth of Jesus. From it we learn of how they knew, loved, and worshipped Christ, who appeared to them as the resurrected Savior.
The Spirit moved me profoundly as I learned of the Savior’s declaration to them: “Behold, I am Jesus Christ, whom the prophets testified shall come into the world.”
The missionaries gave us our own copy of the Book of Mormon. We read and accepted the invitation found at the end of the Book of Mormon, which reads:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
It has been almost 45 years since my mother and I first learned the joy and power of having faith in Christ. It was because of their faith in Christ that the Lopez family shared their new faith with me. It was because of their faith in Christ that these two missionaries left their homes in the United States to find my mother and me. It was the faith of all these dear friends that planted a mustard seed of faith in us that has since grown into a mighty tree of eternal blessings.
During these blessed years, we have known, as President Russell M. Nelson declared: “Everything good in life—every potential blessing of eternal significance—begins with faith. Allowing God to prevail in our lives begins with faith that He is willing to guide us. True repentance begins with faith that Jesus Christ has the power to cleanse, heal, and strengthen us.”

When I was in junior high, I had a couple of good friends who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: Suzy and Dene. Travel back in your mind to your junior high experiences. I don’t know about you, but my wonderful group of friends sometimes had ill feelings toward each other for seemingly minor slights that seemed huge at the time. During one of these times, I observed Suzy and Dene acting as the peacemakers in our group. They worked together in healing a rift between two good friends, even quoting Christ’s words in Matthew 18:22 to forgive “seventy times seven.” I remembered that experience. Fast forward to ten years later, when I was receiving the missionary discussions. This memory of Suzy and Dene flooded into my mind. Their actions as thirteen-year-old girls influenced my decision to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And they had no idea of their powerful influence in my life until many years later when I could thank them.

The teaching of Mary Bommeli touched more than those women around the loom and the judge. My father, her grandson, talked to me during the nights as he approached death. He spoke of joyous reunions that were coming soon in the spirit world. I could almost see the bright sunlight and the smiles in that place of paradise as he talked about it with such assurance.
At one point I asked him if he had some repenting to do. He smiled. He chuckled softly as he said, “No, Hal, I’ve been repenting as I went along.” The doctrine of paradise that Mary Bommeli taught those women was real to her grandson. And even the doctrine Mary taught the judge had shaped my father’s life for good. That will not be the end of Mary Bommeli’s teaching. The record of her words will send true doctrine to generations of her family yet unborn. Because she believed that even a new convert knew enough doctrine to teach it, the minds and hearts of her descendants will be opened, and they will be strengthened in the battle.

The only construction project Kalene Rice, 14, had ever been involved with was when she helped her father build a birdhouse. Cassie Rudy, 17, also couldn’t remember even holding a hammer. “I might have used one once to hammer a nail in the wall to hang a picture, but I’m not sure,” she says.
If Cassie wasn’t sure then, she is now. She joined Kalene and about 180 other young people from the Frederick Maryland Stake in Chestertown, Maryland, to build two houses in two days. Cassie has the callouses on her hands to prove it.
“This whole project depended on our attitude,” said Cassie. “We could have sat here the whole time and not worked. But that wouldn’t have been any fun. It’s a really good feeling to know we can do things like this.” Adds 14-year-old April Hough, “This has taken more time and more work, but it has been so useful because we’re helping someone who is less fortunate.”

Several years ago I had prayed for specific help but the answer didn't come. So one day, I decided to go to the temple to seek the Lord's help. I cried my heart out to our Heavenly Father for help. I remember complaining as I asked, "Why hast thou turned away from me when I need thy help? After all, I'm a Bishop, I paid a full tithing, I'm worthy, and I'm here at Thy holy temple. And Thou hast promised that if we ask, it shall be given."

I got my answer. It was more than an answer. It was a spiritual experience. To my mind came the still, small voice. It seemed to say, 'What are you talking about? When have I forsaken you? Was I not there when you received your testimony? Was I not there when you made the best decision in your life to marry your wife? What about when your son was critically ill? What about when your daughter had her surgery. I was there and I carried you.' Then I remembered the many, many times in my life when I had received the Lord's help and felt of His great love for me. I felt so bad. So I asked for forgiveness. Then I realized that it was I who had not always remembered the Lord; it was me. I was the problem. I do not always remember our Heavenly Father.

Sometimes people won’t understand your actions, but if you follow the Holy Ghost, you will always know that you are doing the right thing. When I received my mission call, I had finished two years of schooling at Stanford University. I announced that I was dropping out of school for two years to serve a mission, and soon afterward, my advisor asked to meet with me. When I walked into his office, the first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” He told me that I was making a mistake and that the university might never let me back in. He encouraged me to finish my schooling and then serve a mission.
Many years later, I received a call from the prophet asking me to retire and serve as a General Authority. At the time, I had a responsible position in the United States government. I accepted the call, just as I had accepted the mission call when I was nineteen years old, and I announced my retirement. Soon afterward, a senior official walked into my office. The first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” I said, “I think I’ve heard this before.”
I wasn’t crazy when I served a mission, and I wasn’t crazy when I retired to serve as a General Authority. No matter what else is going on in your life, when the call to serve comes, that is the moment to do it.

A letter and an old ashtray came to the office of the Presiding Bishop. The letter reads: “Dear Sir, I stole the enclosed ashtray from your hotel in 1965. After these many years, I want to apologize to you and ask for your forgiveness for my wrongdoing. Sincerely, (signature)
“P.S. I have enclosed a check that attempts to reimburse you for the ashtray.”
The check was in the amount of $26.00, one dollar for each year he had kept the ashtray. I can imagine that during those twenty-six years, each time he tapped his cigarette on the rim of that tray he suffered a twinge of conscience. I do not know that the hotel ever missed the ashtray, but the man who took it missed his peace of mind for more than a quarter of a century and finally ended up paying far more for the stolen tray than it was worth. Yes, honesty is the best policy.

Illustration by Bryan Beach
David looked at the rectangular block of wood from every angle, trying to imagine it finished and painted for his very first pinewood derby race.
“Does it matter what shape I make it?” he asked Dad.
“No,” Dad said. “The only limits are your imagination.”
After some careful thought, David drew lines on the wood in the shape of a racecar.
They both put on safety glasses and Dad turned on the saw. David loved the smell of fresh-cut pine as Dad’s saw buzzed through the wood.
“Do you think this design will win?” David asked.
“Well, I don’t really know,” Dad said. “I was never a Cub Scout. But I don’t think winning is what’s most important …”
“I know,” David said. “It’s being a good sport.”
“You got it,” Dad said, patting him on the back. “It’s just for fun.”
David knew being a good sport was important, but deep inside he really wanted the fastest car on the track.
The next day he painted his car bright red and used a special paint marker to draw pinstripes down the sides. He imagined his car zooming down the track, first every time.
“I think it looks great,” Dad said when the car was finished. “Are you excited for tomorrow?”
David nodded. “Oh, yeah! Thanks for your help, Dad.”
“It was fun working on it with you,” Dad said. He grinned. “It’s almost like we’ll be in the driver’s seat together on the race track.”
David laughed as he imagined squeezing into the small car with Dad.
But on the night of the big race, David felt sick when he saw the other cars. Many of them looked like real racecars.
Suddenly his own car seemed a lot less impressive. Did he even stand a chance?
Two boys placed their cars against pegs at the top of the track. David watched excitedly as the Cubmaster pulled a handle and the wooden pegs dropped away so that both cars started at exactly the same time.
The crowd cheered and clapped as the two cars barreled down the track. After the winner was declared, two more cars lined up.
Several races later, it was David’s turn. The sick feeling in his stomach came back. The other boy’s car looked so much faster.
The pegs dropped. Sure enough, the other car zoomed to the finish line while his seemed to crawl down the track.
After 9 out of 15 races, David hadn’t won even once.
He glanced over and noticed a disappointed look on Dad’s face. David had never thought this might be hard for him too. He walked over and squeezed Dad’s hand.
“There are more important things than winning,” David whispered.
“That’s right, David,” Dad said with a sudden smile. Dad squeezed his hand back.
It didn’t bother David anymore when his car didn’t win. He and Dad had had a lot of fun together making his car. That was more important than winning any day.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity of traveling with the President of the Church to attend a series of area conferences. I will never forget the contrast between two conferences that were held just a few days apart.
The first area conference was held in a large arena, and as we sat on the stand, we noticed continuous movement by the people. We saw individuals throughout the arena leaning over and whispering to family members and friends seated next to them. Giving the members the benefit of the doubt, we thought that maybe the large building helped cause the lack of reverence.
A few days later, we were in another country attending another area conference in an arena much like the first. When we entered the building, however, an immediate hush came over the congregation. As we sat through the two-hour general session, there was very little movement among the people. Everyone listened intently. Great attention and respect were shown all the speakers, and when the prophet spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
After the meeting was over, I asked the priesthood leaders about what they had done to prepare the people for the conference. They told me their preparation had been simple. They had asked priesthood holders to explain to the members of their families, and also the families they home taught, that at an area conference they would have the privilege of hearing the words of the prophet and the apostles. The priesthood leaders explained that the reverence their people felt for God and His servants was the basis for their reverent behavior at the conference.

Our dates were very interesting and diverse: we rode bicycles and horses, visited museums, read the scriptures, cooked, walked in the parks (we even danced in one of them), and went to an orphanage to serve and play with the children.
Every time we met, we did something new, so we had a lot of fun. I appreciated how inventive Vitaly was in planning our dates. The activities he planned helped us really get to know each other.
Vitaly: Because I was a student, I couldn’t really afford many amusing things. I spent most of my money traveling to see Katya and paying my phone bill. But having a limited budget didn’t mean that our dating had to be uninteresting or unproductive. In fact, some of our best dates didn’t cost a single penny.
It may sound silly, but I wanted to see how Katya would act around children, so we went to an orphanage. It was like that with many of our dates; we really tried to learn as much about each other as we could.
Vitaly: In Russia, as in many places, it is the norm for people to live together before marrying. After I proposed to Katya, some of my friends asked me how I could possibly marry her without knowing beforehand if we were personally compatible. They reasoned, as many also did with Katya, that the only way to really know whether she was right for me was to live with her for an extended period of time.
I told them that there is no need to live with a person to get to know him or her. I also tried to explain to my friends in a way that they could understand that I had prayed and received an answer that I should marry Katya. Having prayed about my decision, I had no fears about married life. I was excited and felt like a whole new life was unfolding before me. No one ever opposed or criticized me for taking this stand. In fact, they supported me in my decision.
Katya: When Vitaly proposed, my parents tried to talk me out of getting married. They thought it was too soon for us to be engaged and that I needed to know Vitaly better than I did. My boss at work told me the same thing and added, “You need to live together before you make a choice like that.”
I’m sad that people feel that way about marriage and family. I don’t think they understand how happy couples can be when they are married and sealed in the temple. The great love and happiness Vitaly and I felt at our marriage were made even stronger by the knowledge that we are sealed for eternity.
Vitaly: Katya and I were married in Omsk on February 25, 2006. (The laws of Russia require a civil marriage prior to a temple sealing, as many countries do.) The next morning we set off on a trip to the Stockholm Sweden Temple. We boarded an airplane in Omsk and flew three hours to Moscow, where we spent the rest of the day. Then we took an overnight train to Saint Petersburg. Once there we got on a bus with other Latter-day Saints and traveled for eight hours to Helsinki, Finland. The last leg of our journey was an 11-hour ferry ride to Stockholm.
Finally, we had reached the temple.
For some, such a long trip may seem like a challenge, but in many ways, our trip across Europe made a great honeymoon.
The day of our sealing, March 1, 2006, was a great day—a day of peace and assurance. I knew that the person whose hand I was holding was the one I’d share eternity with. This thought alone filled me with great joy and gratitude to Heavenly Father for trusting me with His daughter for my wife. I felt closer to Him than ever before.
Katya: Now Vitaly and I have a young daughter. She is wonderful. I want her to marry in the temple someday, and the best support we could offer her is to be loving companions and parents.
I hope that she is able to find a worthy priesthood holder who has many Christlike attributes. It was seeing those kinds of attributes in Vitaly that helped me know I could marry him.
What attracted me to Vitaly? Of course, he is handsome and smart, and he knows how to court a woman. But these were not the main criteria. He had what I like to call “eyes of a disciple of Christ.” I sensed a light in him. He is a righteous priesthood holder.
Vitaly: Of course, it’s great to be married to someone you’re attracted to. But when our focus is solely on physical characteristics, we inevitably miss the most important characteristics—personality, spirituality, and other qualities that really matter in an enduring marriage.
I realize it may be a challenge for some young adults to find a spouse in the Church simply because there are not many Latter-day Saints where they live. I empathize with them. Nevertheless, I know that no matter what circumstances we are in, if we do our part and prepare ourselves to be sealed in the temple, Heavenly Father can provide a way.

In 1973 I was the seminary teacher for our ward. Since we did not live in a heavily church-populated area, we had early morning seminary, beginning at 6:10 A.M. Every morning 35 to 40 choice young people would get up and come to the church in order to attend our New Testament class, and every morning it was like a small miracle to me. To study the gospel that early in the morning took a special dedication, and I admired my students as they daily appeared for more gospel instruction.

For several years it had been the policy of our stake to have a scripture chase tournament in which teams from the eight wards competed, and the two top teams would then go to a regional competition with four other stakes.

That year we had a great team of seven people, five girls and two young men. They had worked hard all year, spending a great deal of their own time outside of class studying for the competition, and the excitement began to increase as the day for the stake play-off approached. Of course, our team had scouted the other wards and knew that the team to beat was our neighboring Fourteenth Ward.

The night of the stake competition came, and after several closely contested matches, we completed the contest in second place, losing to Fourteenth Ward. Our team had done well, and I was satisfied that the real purpose of the competition, to learn the scriptures, had been accomplished. And we had qualified for the regional contest coming up the next weekend.

During that week the team worked even harder studying and reciting the scriptures back to each other. They also set their goal of beating the first-place team from our stake, feeling sure that we would be matched with them during the regionals.

Regional competition was a total day where the ten top teams from the five stakes competed in a double elimination tournament, and as the day progressed, so did the excitement and pressure. As in all competition, elation for one team meant great disappointment for another, and as our team competed, we too experienced high and low moments. We lost our first round, which meant we had only one more chance. However, we rallied and won the next two games, which put us in an excellent position. Four of the ten teams had already been eliminated, and we felt that we could at least take a second or third. Of course, each of us nurtured a hope of first place, although it was never openly talked about.

As we sat and talked about our next game, Steve got up and ambled over to the board to see who our next game would be with. He was back in a minute with an excited look on his face.

“Hey, Fourteenth Ward lost to North Third Ward! It’s their first loss, and guess who they play next!”

Well, here it was. I could feel the excitement go up a notch, and every member of the team was thinking the same thing when Steve voiced it aloud:

“We can beat those guys! If we beat them in regionals, that’ll show we’re really the best in our stake. The pressure’s greater here, but I know we can beat those guys! And that’s really why we came here.”

We had about two minutes before the game, and we hurriedly discussed last-minute strategy. As we were about to get up, I said something I hadn’t said all year, because I knew l didn’t have to. Still, it came out.

“Okay, just one more thing. Whatever happens, remember that the most important thing is to be fair. If the judge makes a bad call, don’t argue. Be honest in everything you do.” I could tell from the seven looks I got back that l had insulted their integrity, and I wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth.

“Seattle Ninth and Seattle Fourteenth Wards, would you please take your places?” Both teams moved into place, and l grabbed an empty seat on the front row of spectator seats. The cultural hall was about three-fourths full, complete with parents and friends to cheer each team.

I slumped in my chair and said funny things to myself like, “Remember, you’re the teacher. Don’t get excited. Present a good image. You’re not supposed to be nervous. It’s only a game. No matter what happens, they’ve done a great job.” Brother Stock reached over and slapped me on the back. “This is it! We’ve got to win this one.” Thanks, I needed that.

In our scripture chase, we had three types of questions. The first was an individual question, where the first person on either team to find the correct scripture from the clue given received a point for his or her team. The second was a team-help question, where all members of the team had to have the same scripture, but they could help each other. The first team to get it received two points. The third type was a team-no-help, where all the team had to have the scripture, but they couldn’t help each other. The first team to get it received three points. There was a total of seven clues given, and the team with the most points won that game. The loser of this match would be eliminated from the tournament.

I don’t remember the sequence of events or questions, but at the end of six questions, the score was tied six to six. I was no longer able to pretend I was not excited but was sitting on the very edge of my chair, cheering for our team with the rest of the parents and friends.

Now! Now was the time for a home run, a hole in one, a 50-yard field goal, a 30-foot jump shot, a 4-minute mile, a whatever is great in any sport—now was the time when a competitor put full dedication into one last supreme effort, knowing there would be no more chances.

“Okay, teams, here we go for the final question. A team-help, worth two points, and everybody on the team must have it. Remember, you can help each other, and the judge for each team will check your Bible to make sure you have it right. When you get the correct scripture, put your finger in the page, close your Bible, and turn on your switch. Ready? Situation: Where does it say that a man cannot take the priesthood upon himself? Chase!”

Hands and books flew, and I knew they were going to have to be fast. Hebrews 5:4—it was so easy; they’ve got to have it by now! There! The lights came on almost at the same time, but our team was first! I could tell from the looks on their faces that they all had the right scripture.

“Okay, Ninth Ward, does everyone have Hebrews 5:4?” [Heb. 5:4] Everybody nodded. “Judge, would you check each Bible to make sure they have the correct page?” Everyone opened their books as the judge passed slowly down the row to make sure everything was right. He looked at the moderator, nodded, and said, “Everybody has it.”

Explosion behind me and all around. Parents and friends were cheering, and the team was grinning from ear to ear—all except Steve. He quietly motioned to the judge and pointed to something in his Bible. After a few seconds of whispering, the judge returned to the moderator and explained the situation. I knew immediately what had happened. In his haste, Steve had gotten one page off when he marked his Bible with his finger. As sometimes happened, the judge didn’t catch it since it was only one page away from the correct answer.

I didn’t need to listen to know that the other team’s members all had the correct scripture and that we had lost. I didn’t care, because all I could think about was an 18-year-old priest who taught me more in less than a minute about honor and integrity than I had ever read or heard. To say nothing would have been the easy thing to do. No one knew, no one questioned, and our team had already been declared the winner. I quickly reviewed in my mind the quiet manner in which Steve had corrected the mistake, with no expectation of recognition or honor, just the sure knowledge that there was only one right thing to do. And through the misty eyes and the lump in my throat, I silently thanked my Father in Heaven for allowing me to associate with spirits as choice as Steve.

At an earlier time and in a different conflict—namely the American Civil War—a historically documented account illustrates courage, coupled with mercy.

From December 11 to 13, 1862, the Union forces attacked Marye’s Heights, a large hill overlooking the town of Fredericksburg, Virginia, where six thousand Rebels awaited them. The Southern troops were in secure defensive positions behind a stone wall which meandered along the foot of the hill. In addition, they stood four deep on a sunken road behind the wall, out of sight of Union forces.

The Union troops—over forty thousand strong—launched a series of suicidal attacks across open ground. They were mowed down by a scythe of shot; none got closer than forty yards from the stone wall.

Soon the ground in front of the Confederate positions was littered with hundreds, then thousands, of fallen Union soldiers in their blue uniforms—over twelve thousand before sunset. Crying for help, the wounded lay in the bitter cold throughout that terrible night.

The next day, a Sunday, dawned cold and foggy. As the morning fog lifted, the agonized cries of the wounded could still be heard. Finally, a young Confederate soldier, a nineteen-year-old sergeant, had had all he could take. The young man’s name was Richard Rowland Kirkland. To his commanding officer, Kirkland exclaimed, “All night and all day I have heard those poor people crying for water, and I can stand it no longer. I … ask permission to go and give them water.” His request was initially denied on the grounds that it was too dangerous. Finally, however, permission was granted, and soon thousands of amazed men on both sides saw the young soldier, with several canteens draped around his neck, climb over the wall and walk to the nearest wounded Union soldier. He raised the stricken man’s head, gently gave him a drink, and covered him with his own overcoat. Then he moved to the next of the wounded—and the next and the next. As Kirkland’s purpose became clear, fresh cries of “Water, water, for God’s sake, water!” arose all over the field.

The Union soldiers were at first too surprised to shoot. Soon they began to cheer the young Southerner as they saw what he was doing. For more than an hour and a half, Sergeant Kirkland continued his work of mercy.

Tragically, Richard Kirkland was himself killed a few months later at the battle of Chicamauga. His last words to his companions were, “Save yourselves, and tell my pa I died right.”

Kirkland’s Christlike compassion made his name synonymous with mercy for a post–Civil War generation, both North and South. He became known by soldiers on both sides of the conflict as “the angel of Marye’s Heights.” His loving errand of mercy is commemorated by a bronze monument which stands today in front of the stone wall at Fredericksburg. It depicts Sergeant Kirkland lifting the head of a wounded Union soldier to give him a drink of refreshing water. A tablet to Kirkland’s honor hangs in the Episcopal church in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. With simple eloquence, it captures the essence of the young soldier’s mission of mercy. It reads: “A hero of benevolence, at the risk of his own life, he gave his enemy drink at Fredericksburg.”

The words of William Shakespeare describe Kirkland’s deed:
The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: …
It is an attribute to God himself.

Twelve-year-old Elizabeth watched Carol’s long fingers glide smoothly over the black and white piano keys.
“Excellent, Carol!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed for the second time in a matter of minutes. “You’ll do beautifully in Saturday’s competition. I’m expecting you to win that trophy again this year.”
Elizabeth squirmed uneasily and rubbed her moist palms together. The grandfather clock against the wall seemed to stare at her. It wasn’t easy following Mrs. Brown’s best student at piano lessons every week. No matter how hard Elizabeth practiced, she always felt a bit inadequate compared to Carol.
“The competition begins promptly at two o’clock Saturday,” Mrs. Brown told Carol.
“I’ll be here,” Carol replied. “I want to add this year’s trophy to my collection. See you Saturday, Mrs. Brown.” Carol walked confidently across the room to the door, ignoring Elizabeth.
“Let’s get started, Elizabeth,” the teacher said, motioning her toward the piano. The bench felt hard and unfriendly as Elizabeth sat down and slid to the center. In a way, Mrs. Brown still frightened her, even after two years of lessons.
“Arch those fingers, and wrists down,” Mrs. Brown began. “And please count out loud.”
Elizabeth began her scales. “One, two, and three and four and one,” she repeated again and again. Her fingers were loose and steady. Those extra hours of practicing were making a difference.
“Sounds good, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Brown’s voice sounded a little surprised. “Now let’s try your piece for the competition Saturday.”
Elizabeth took the teacher’s request as a challenge. Her fingers were like the smoothly moving parts of a machine as they glided almost effortlessly over the keys. The music was soft, then loud; sweet, then proud. She turned the last page and finished the piece boldly.
“Good, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “Very good. In fact, Elizabeth, that performance deserves a bravo!”
Elizabeth smiled, her eyes glistening happily. She knew that she had to be good to receive comments like those from Mrs. Brown.
“Those judges are going to have quite a decision to make on Saturday if you play this well then, Elizabeth,” her teacher praised her at the end of the lesson. “The best of luck to you. Remember, the competition starts at two o’clock.”
Elizabeth walked outside in a daze and waited for her ride. Bravo! she thought, recalling Mrs. Brown’s words. She sat down on the grass and began imagining herself in a large, dark concert hall, bowing to thunderous applause. Hot theater lights made her perspire as she curtsied proudly.
The out-of-tune honk of her mother’s car horn startled Elizabeth and brought her back to reality. “Mother!” Elizabeth cried. She grabbed her books, jumped up, and ran excitedly to the car. “Mrs. Brown liked my playing today. She said I even have a chance for the trophy at the competition on—“
“Slow down, Elizabeth,” her mother interrupted. But there was a pleased look on her face. “Tell me all about it from the beginning.” She pulled the car slowly into the street.
“Oh, Mother,” Elizabeth began, “after I listened to Carol play today, I was really discouraged. She never makes a mistake, and she’s won the trophy the past three years.”
“Carol is a good player,” her mother responded honestly.
“But when I played my piece for Mrs. Brown, she liked it. She said ‘Bravo,’ Mother. And she said that the judges would have a hard time choosing a winner on Saturday.”
“All those hours at the piano are really beginning to pay off,” her mother replied encouragingly. “I always believed that you had a real talent for the piano.”
Elizabeth spent many hours the next three days seated at the upright piano in the corner of the living room. Her fingers worked endlessly. All she could think about was winning the trophy.
Autumn turned annoyingly into winter the Saturday of the competition. Gray black clouds filled the sky, and before noon large snowflakes were falling.
Elizabeth practiced playing her piece for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Nervously she put on her favorite blue dress. Her shining dark brown hair lay clean on her shoulders.
“I’m ready to go,” she told her father. Her little brothers wore their white shirts and dress pants.
“Let’s get started then,” Dad said. “This storm has turned into a blizzard. We’ll need extra time to get to the competition.”
The windshield wipers on the car slapped noisily from side to side, sweeping the snowflakes aside as they accumulated. As the car wound slowly toward the studio, the storm worsened, and cars began sliding on the road.
“What if we’re too late, Dad?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“I think we’ll make it, if we’re careful,” her father reassured her.
Elizabeth relaxed momentarily, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. We just have to make it! she thought. I’ve worked too hard to miss the competition.
The monotony of the windshield wipers was interrupted by a slushy, skidding sound. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see a large sedan slide off the road.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” her father said grimly.
Elizabeth stared out the window at the struggling vehicle as their own car crept slowly by. The sedan seemed to be hopelessly stuck.
Suddenly Elizabeth recognized it. It was the one always parked in front of the piano studio when she arrived for her lesson. Carol was inside that car! Mrs. Brown’s best piano student was agonizing, no doubt, as she listened to the car’s wheels whine desperately.
A triumphant smile spread over Elizabeth’s face as she imagined the trophy on her dresser. After all, it was not her fault that Carol’s car had slipped off the road.
The big sedan was not much more than a spot in the distance now, and Mrs. Brown’s studio was just a few minutes away. But Elizabeth felt uneasy. Her earlier enthusiasm for an easy victory had disappeared. Several times she squinted out the back window at the stalled car. It had not moved.
“We’re going to make it, Elizabeth!” her father said happily. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“Dad, you have to turn back,” Elizabeth declared firmly.
Elizabeth’s mother and brothers stared at her.
“Carol was in that car back there that slid off the road. If we don’t go back and help, she’ll never make it in time to play.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Elizabeth, but we’re sure to be late.”
“Then stop and turn around, Dad. Now. We can both still make it if we play last.” Elizabeth sounded sure about her decision.
Slowly her father brought the car to a halt. He turned it around carefully and drove back to the car that was stuck.
Later the audience clapped enthusiastically as Carol stood and walked to the judges’ stand. She had performed flawlessly. Her hands grasped the tall trophy.
Behind Carol, out of the bright lights, Elizabeth stood with the other contenders. She had not won the trophy, but she knew that her parents were equally proud of her. A feeling of contentment came over her as she realized that some things were even more important than winning a trophy.

A story from my own family history illustrates this principle. My great-grandfather Joseph Watson Maynes was born in 1856 in Hull, Yorkshire, England. His family joined the Church in England and then made their way to Salt Lake City. He married Emily Keep in 1883, and they became the parents of eight children. Joseph was called to serve a full-time mission in June of 1910, when he was 53 years old. With the support of his wife and eight children, he returned to his native England to serve his mission.

After serving faithfully for approximately two years, he was riding his bicycle along with his companion to Sunday School services in Gloucester, England, when his tire burst. He got off his bicycle to assess the damage. When he saw that it was serious and would take a while to fix, he told his companion to go ahead and begin the Sunday service and he would be there shortly. Just as he finished saying this, he collapsed to the ground. He had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Joseph Watson Maynes never saw his wife and eight children again in this life. They were able to transport his body back to Salt Lake City and have his funeral service at the old Waterloo Assembly Hall. A statement made at his funeral service by Elder Anthony W. Ivins of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles teaches us an important lesson about life, death, and endurance: “This is what the gospel gives us—not immunity from death, but victory over it through the hope we have in a glorious resurrection. … It applies to [Joseph Maynes]. … It is a pleasure, and it is a satisfaction and joy to know that men lay down their lives in righteousness, in the faith, true to the faith.”

This family story inspires me to try my very best to follow the example of endurance and spiritual stamina illustrated by my great-grandfather. I am equally inspired by the faith of his wife, Emily, whose life after Joseph’s death was certainly a heavy burden to bear. Her testimony was strong and her conversion complete as she spent the rest of her life true to the faith while supporting her eight children on her own.

Last year, standing in the wings behind the curtain moments before a magnificently inspiring young artists’ music festival, I witnessed a performance that touched my heart—maybe even more than the performance on stage, certainly as much. A prayer had been offered in behalf of each of the young performers that their hard weeks—yes, even years of conscientious preparation—might be drawn from at this moment to ensure a masterful performance. Eyes were moist; hearts were touched as the strength and unity of family members lent confidence and encouragement to each performer. At that moment, a father, appearing proud and grateful, quickly leaned forward, gave his beautiful young daughter a tender kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “You’re ready, my dear.” And her next step was on stage, alone—a solo flight.
Oh, that our preparation at each step in our lives might be such that, as we approach that hour of challenge (and there are many), we might have that quiet whispering of the Spirit in our ears: “You’re ready, my dear.”

Recollecting times of fervent prayer during her childhood, Sister Smith continued: “The day I was to be baptized, my mother was delayed trying to find a place to park the car, so she sent me into the Salt Lake Tabernacle baptistry by myself. The sisters there helped me get ready, and I went into the baptistry and sat down. My mother wasn’t there yet. I was so nervous I could hardly sit still. The only thing I could think to do was to pray that Heavenly Father would make sure my mother would soon come to be with me. While I was praying, in she came, and I knew that my prayer had been answered.

The rescuers, trying to outrace disaster, organized a survival push from Devil’s Gate to Utah. Carefully they loaded the very ill into Utah wagons and then recruited older girls, including Elizabeth, to ride along as nurses. Reluctantly she left her mother and family, and lonesomeness plagued her for weeks. Mostly she rode, but when the wagons ascended mountains she had to walk. At the foot of Big Mountain, a day away from Salt Lake City, snows stood so deep she had to put on men’s boots. Taller people walked in each other’s tracks, but Elizabeth was too short: “I had to make my own road up, frequently falling down as the snow was so deep and drifted.” When they reached the summit and could see Salt Lake Valley below, Elizabeth said, “the men took off their hats and we waved our handkerchiefs.” She reached the city safely on November 30, two weeks ahead of her family, and stayed with friends.

The prophet Joel also indicated that old men would dream dreams. This statement caused me to reflect on the experiences that have changed my life. Such an experience occurred when I was about your age. In my late teens a bishop called me to be a Sunday School teacher of eight-year-olds. I will always remember the trepidation I felt prior to the first class and the wonderment that someone believed in me enough to trust young people to my stewardship. I put my heart and soul into preparing for the class. I studied the scriptures as well as the manual and enjoyed the beauty and cogency of the Lord’s word. One day as I was preparing a lesson, a thought came to me regarding the importance of the Lord’s teachings and the scriptures and their applicability in my life. A strong, warm sensation saturated my being as the thought passed through my consciousness. That day I felt the swellings of the Holy Spirit within me, and I sensed the power that comes when one searches the scriptures. It was the beginning of a personal testimony.

For Christmas one year, my wife, Julia, made candy-cane chocolate sweets that we wrapped in little decorated boxes. Then we visited those in the Spanish-speaking branch we ministered to and gave them our gift, along with wishes for a merry Christmas.
When we arrived at the house of Brother Sanchez, a friendly, elderly member of our branch, we knocked and waited. No one was home, so we left the candy in his mailbox.
Several weeks later, during sacrament meeting, Brother Sanchez spoke of his conversion and of the many miracles he had experienced throughout his life. He testified of the amazing power of the Book of Mormon to answer life’s deepest questions. He lifted the set of scriptures he had received decades ago from the missionaries who had taught him. His voice trembled with his love for and testimony of the Lord.
Then Brother Sanchez did something we did not expect. He set our little decorated box on the pulpit. He said that when he found the box, he didn’t think he would eat the sweets because he is diabetic. Instead, he placed the box on his nightstand and forgot about it.
A few days later, as he lay in bed, he said he felt his blood sugar suddenly drop. Fear overcame him when his body began to shake. He recognized that he faced an emergency, knowing that he might need to call an ambulance. Then he noticed the box. He grabbed it, opened it, and quickly ate the chocolates. He felt relief as his blood sugar returned to normal.
Brother Sanchez lifted the empty box and testified that small acts of service can make a big difference. He testified that such experiences are not a coincidence and that Heavenly Father’s hand is in the details of our lives.
My wife and I were humbled to know that our small act of service had made a large impact on him and had maybe even saved his life. As we do small acts of service for those around us, the Lord will unlock opportunities that bless lives in powerful ways.

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was fifteen years old. I had developed a serious ear infection, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors say that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my sense of balance.

My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for anointing the sick.

My mother was influenced by the Holy Ghost to place my name on the prayer roll of the temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.