Gospel Story Finder

My 13-year-old mind whirled as the nurse pushed the electronic button to raise the head of my hospital bed. The induced stupor of pain-killing drugs numbed my awareness. Flickers of pain shot through the right side of my body. I closed my eyes, grimacing to endure the discomfort.
As the nurse adjusted the pillows and bedcoverings to make me more comfortable, I relaxed my facial muscles and opened my eyes. Looking down, I realized that the nurse had pulled back the yellow blanket and sheets that had covered my lower body.
“No!” I screamed. I yanked the bedcoverings back down and yelled again, “No!” Dropping my head into my hands, sobs shook my body as I realized what I had seen: my right leg had been amputated.
Continuing to cry, I reviewed in my mind the promise I had been given in my patriarchal blessing just two weeks before. “You will have the faith to be healed,” Patriarch Kimball had said. When this blessing was given, I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. My parents and I interpreted this statement to mean that the malignant bone tumor in my knee would be healed and my leg would not be removed.
Patriarch Kimball’s remarkable words were a testimony to all of my family and friends that a miracle would occur. As my doctors prepared me for the amputation surgery, they assured my parents that they would check one last time to see if the tumor was there. If it was gone, they wouldn’t perform the surgery; I would awaken with two intact legs. However, if the tumor was still there, an immediate amputation was necessary to prevent the spread of the cancer cells to the rest of my body.
My mother looked in the door to my hospital room. I could see she was crying and guessed she had heard my outburst. I couldn’t control the anger I was feeling, so I closed my eyes and lowered the head of my bed. I didn’t want to see the nurse, my mom, or anyone else. I felt betrayed. Lying there on the bed, alone and miserable, I cried bitterly in anger at everyone I had trusted.
For several days, I refused to look down where my leg used to be. When a physical therapist came in to help me take my first steps with an artificial leg, I refused to cooperate. I fell into a depression. I just couldn’t believe that life could continue without my leg.
About a week after the surgery, my father insisted that I take a wheelchair ride outside the hospital. I sat in the chair, slumped over, gritting my teeth in pain as my father pushed me outside for the first time. Dad took me into a rose garden that spread out in front of the hospital. I looked over at the lovely rose bushes growing around me, and I felt so ugly, so deformed.
As I sat there feeling miserable, the desire grew within me to reach out for the roses, to smell the individual flowers. I expressed this to my dad, and he tried to move the wheelchair close enough for me to do so. But the chair was too awkward over the grass and dirt around the bushes. I started to cry again in frustration that I couldn’t accomplish one simple task. Dad knelt down at the side of my wheelchair and stroked my hair. When I stopped sobbing, he took my hands in his and looked straight into my eyes.
“You can do it, you know,” he said. “It won’t be easy. Everything—even smelling roses—will be harder from now on. But I know, and you know, that you can do it.” We were both silent for a long time as I looked into his eyes. In that moment I realized that I had no choice about the loss of my leg. It was gone, and I needed to accept it. I also understood that I would need all of my strength and determination to do the things I would want to do. I will do it, I thought to myself.
I spent many hours learning to manipulate my artificial leg. It was awkward and painful, and I often fell down. At the same time, I still had chemotherapy treatments every two weeks. Because of the treatments I was bald, weak, and severely underweight. At one point about six months after my surgery, I was so discouraged that I told my oncologist (the doctor who was treating my cancer) that I wouldn’t continue my treatments. She explained to me that if I didn’t finish the prescribed course of treatment, the cancer had a high chance of returning, and she urged me to continue. I was emotionally and physically exhausted, but in the back of my mind I remembered my father’s words and I felt renewed strength to continue with my treatments.
Six months later, the chemotherapy treatments were over. I still felt discouraged about losing a leg, and I was overwhelmed with fear about facing the future as a one-legged person. My mind turned again to the promise given in my patriarchal blessing. I wasn’t healed, I thought to myself. Why wasn’t I healed? I wondered if it was a lack of faith on my part. Maybe I hadn’t prayed hard enough or believed that Heavenly Father could heal me as was promised in my blessing.
As these thoughts ran through my mind, I started to cry. I curled myself up into a fetal position and sobbed for a long time. As I did so, I remembered all I had accomplished in the year since my surgery. I had adjusted to my disability and learned to walk again. I had completed my full course of chemotherapy treatments and was gaining weight and strength again. My hair was even beginning to grow back. Then it came to my mind, with a small and simple whisper, that I had been healed. I was healed of the overwhelming pain and anguish that came when I realized my leg was gone. I was given the physical and emotional strength to tackle the challenges of life following the surgery. Most importantly, I was in remission from the cancer.
With that realization, I bowed my head in prayer. I thanked my Heavenly Father for the fulfillment of the blessing of healing. I thanked Him for my father’s wise counsel and for the support of my family and friends who had helped me through the most difficult months of my life. Most of all, I thanked Him that I was still alive—for I realized that with or without my right leg, my life was worth living.

It had been a good year for pumpkins. That was the trouble.
“I really have to congratulate you, honey,” my mother said to my father. “I never dreamed I’d ever be married to a successful pumpkin farmer, but here I am.”
My father smiled. “I’m a regular Johnny Pumpkinseed,” he said.
I asked, “What are you going to do with all these pumpkins, Dad? There must be a million of them!”
“They’re going to market first thing tomorrow morning, Dot. Pumpkins like these will make me a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to pay the bills, if he’s lucky.” That was my mother’s line.
My father had been a machinist in an auto factory. When it closed down, he borrowed some money and said that he was going to make his dream come true. Mother told everyone that he was “going into pumpkins.”
Dad had said what he always said, “If I can make my dream come true, you can take an art class and work on your dream.” My mother had always wanted to study commercial art, but there was never enough money for it. I heard her tell Dad that she was going to do this as soon as we kids got through school.
“But,” my mother had wailed, “if your dream doesn’t pay off, we’ll be in worse debt than ever. Wouldn’t you like to get retrained in computers?”
“Dear, you have a negative attitude,” Dad said as he lifted a pumpkin to test the weight and solidness of it. “I hope it doesn’t rub off on the children.”
It might rub off on my little brothers, but I knew it wouldn’t rub off on me. I loved the farm too much. I figured if we could make it work, I’d be able to get a horse someday.
Well, here we were, looking at enough pumpkins to make a million Cinderellas’ dreams come true. We all picked pumpkins and loaded them into the back of the pickup. Then we picked another load and filled the back of the station wagon. It didn’t take many. Some were too big for me to carry.
The biggest pumpkin of all was too big for the station wagon. Dad saved that one for its seeds—and for the Biggest Pumpkin contest at the county fair.
Dad drove the truck, and Mom drove the station wagon into town. Sure enough, Dad sold the lot of them at the first supermarket. We had a party that night. I went out after supper and looked at all the rest of the pumpkins shining in the sunset like pure gold. For the first time, I was glad that my father had lost his factory job and decided to live off the land.
Then trouble came to Pumpkinland. It had been a good year for pumpkins—not just for us Martindales but for all the other pumpkin farmers as well. After we’d sold a few more loads of pumpkins, Dad stopped taking his pickup into town. The markets had plenty of pumpkins.
My mother made and froze pumpkin recipes until there was no more space.
Dad said, “I wonder what Johnny Appleseed would have done?”
“He would have moved to town and gone into computers,” my mother said.
Dad decided to open a roadside stand. All the time I wasn’t in school, I helped to work at the stand with Mother. It was fun at first, when the customers came to buy pumpkins. But soon they were whizzing by without so much as a wave.
“We need a sign,” I said that Thursday afternoon.
“What for, Dot? They can see this pile of pumpkins a mile away.”
“We need a sign that really stops traffic.”
Mother had been painting on a small canvas while we sat there watching customers ignore us. “Bring me the biggest pumpkin you can carry,” she said.
In a few minutes, Mother had painted “PUMPKINS” on it.
“It needs a picture,” I said.
She added a purple spider with long white fangs. I had to laugh.
The pumpkin took its place in front of the stand, facing the coming traffic where it could do its best to lure customers. My mother had such fun painting the sign that she painted a few more spiders on a few more pumpkins. I set them out front too.
The next cars that stopped bought all the spider pumpkins for Halloween. That encouraged Mother, and she painted jack-o’-lantern faces on pumpkins. Before long they sold too. Now, the shed roof didn’t have to fall on us to show us we had a good thing going. Mother painted pumpkins as fast as she could—weird faces, snakes, funny faces, and more purple spiders. Friday there was no school, and all day we sold her painted pumpkins. And those were about the only pumpkins we sold.
That evening when we told my father, he said, “Well, well, I never thought I’d be married to a successful commercial pumpkin artist, but here I am.”
My mother said, “Thank you, Johnny Pumpkinseed.”
After that, Mother couldn’t paint fast enough. She made some stencils and outlined the figures on the pumpkins. Then I filled in the outlines, and she followed with the details. We worked most of the night. Bright and early Saturday morning we were back in business.
Dad came home jubilant to tell us that he’d talked a chain of doughnut shops into giving away a free pumpkin with every two dozen doughnuts sold.
“With or without faces?” my mother asked.
“Ah! That’s the best part,” Dad announced. “They want some of your painted pumpkins to decorate the inside and then a truckload of unpainted ones to pile out front to give away.
Finally we were able to see the end of the pumpkins. We didn’t sell them all, but we did have enough money to pay the bills.
“There’s even enough left over for a horse,” Dad told me.
I thought about this for a long time, then decided that the money should go for an art course for Mother. It was her turn.

I was a young mother with five children under the age of six. My husband, Van, had just finished his first year of law school. We were a gospel-oriented family and had been blessed by the Lord; in fact, our married life was virtually free from serious adversity. My life revolved around my family. I loved being a wife and mother, and yet sometimes I realized my life was so filled with housework and daily tasks that it lacked spiritual intensity. Still, I did not know how to change it. We tried to express gratitude for our blessings, but without real opposition, how does one know how truly blessed he is?
Lehi’s instruction to Jacob that there must be opposition in all things (see 2 Ne. 2:11–15) was soon to acquire new significance in my life. I know now that it takes opposition, suffering, adversity to awaken us to the genuinely valuable things in life. I have also come to know that one of the greatest lessons that can come from adversity is learning to accept the Lord’s will and to depend wholly upon him.
For some time I had been having dizzy spells, nausea, loss of balance, and other disturbing symptoms. I had a nursing baby. Van was preparing for law finals. It was a terrible time for me to get sick, but I was, and we had to do something about it. After my doctor checked my inner ears, he sent me to a neurologist, who promptly put me in the hospital for tests.
The tests were painful and left me with intense headaches and nausea. Many times I prayed for relief of pain and strength to endure, and I was surprised and humbled by the quick response to my prayers. The doctors were looking for a tumor which was a little frightening, but Van and I naively imagined it would be something simple and operable and that I would be all right. Imagine my feelings when the neurologist came in one morning, looking very grave and upset, and said they had found a brain-stem tumor. It was serious. He told my husband such a tumor was inoperable and that it was probably malignant. We were stunned. Suddenly our optimism vanished. The future seemed bleak.
I kept thinking of all the reasons I could not die: I could not leave Van—how would he manage? And what about my babies?
Many were praying for us. I found out weeks later, and am still touched when I think of it, that my mother prayed that, if possible, she would take my place should someone die. What love she showed! Our ward fasted and prayed, and I was deeply moved. While I was in the hospital I had no idea of the many wonderful people who were concerned.
My husband was a man in anguish. There were no regrets, but oh, we had planned to grow old together! We had always been close. How could we possibly get along without each other? He prayed for understanding, peace of mind, and the courage to accept whatever happened.
I, too, prayed to have the right attitude. But it escaped me, until one morning I opened the Bible at random and was struck forcefully by the Lord’s words to Peter, “Lovest thou me more than these?” (John 21:15.) He seemed to be asking me that question. Did I love the Lord more than anything—more, even, than life itself? Yes, I told the Lord. Yes, I really did.
Finally, I was able to reconcile my feelings, to say, “Thy will be done” and really mean it. And when I could do that, I was filled with an inexpressible peace. I was no longer afraid. When I cried, it was because of my babies. How I hated to leave them to be raised by others! But we were an eternal family, sealed in the temple, and surely we would be together again.
During this period I felt very clearly the true significance of time on earth. In the eternal scheme, it is really so short, even if it lasts a hundred years. Those who are left on earth do miss the one who goes, but they should fill their lives with good things, and try to keep growing. The one who has died will be very busy in the spirit world.
Following my reconciliation with God, I felt a constant burning of the Spirit, and strength flowed from me to my loved ones. I began to understand that there were many in the spirit world waiting for me, and I would not need to feel afraid or alone. My loving father and my stepfather were both there to be with me. Yet the thought occurred to me over and over that I must keep my life in order. If somehow I were to live, I should see to it that I was prepared to die.
The doctors decided to give me a final test—a very painful injection of air into the spinal fluid. This would help pinpoint the tumor and perhaps tell the doctors more about it for possible cobalt treatments. Before the test, I received a beautiful priesthood blessing, promising that I would leave the hospital.
While I was recovering from the test, the doctor approached my family in amazement: there was no tumor. There was actually a space where the tumor had been, but nothing was there. The doctors had no explanation. They admitted to being baffled.
Suddenly I knew what the expression “a new lease on life” really meant. I had a new lease. After all, we are all here by the generosity of a loving Father and according to his wisdom. My “lease” had been renewed. After seventeen days in the hospital, I left, barely able to walk but supremely happy. This was the answer to the prayers of many faithful, wonderful people, and the blessing and power of the priesthood.
As I grew stronger, my life was once again filled with all the mundane chores of cooking, cleaning, laundry, and diaper changing. It was also, more than ever, filled with gratitude and happiness, and with an understanding of the need to constantly seek the Spirit, carefully teach the gospel to our children, and strive for more meaning in prayer.
My constant prayer now is that I will live to be worthy of the Lord’s confidence in me. None of us knows how long we may live. I hope to make the best of all the time I may have.

That reminded her of Uncle Jed. Last spring he had suggested she find a summer job where she could look out at people and not into herself so much. “It’d be good to surround yourself with some joy,” he had said.
“I’d like that,” Jenny had said as they walked along the sidewalk in front of her house. She thought it might be fun working at the water slide. At least there she could see people, families, having fun.
“There are some openings for summer youth counselors at Parkhaven,” Uncle Jed said.
“Parkhaven? That’s for retarded children isn’t it?” That didn’t sound very joyful to her.
Uncle Jed stopped walking. He turned to face her and then smiled. With his characteristic softness he said, “Do you remember the New Testament story about the pool at Bethesda and the handicapped folks who waited for someone to move the water so they could be healed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember who they waited for?”
“An angel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Some people have to wait for angels to help them while they are in their imperfect bodies. Actually, we’re all defective one way or the other. But because of the Savior and what he did in the Resurrection, we’ll eventually be wrapped with glory. Can you imagine how glad those children at Parkhaven are going to be when that happens? Now, though, while they wait for the time their bodies will become perfect, the children at Parkhaven have need of angels to soothe their spirits while they cope with bodies that don’t work as well as yours and mine.”
Jenny had felt uneasy about working with handicapped children. She was handicapped too, she thought—emotionally. She wanted someone to take care of her, not the other way around. But in the past she had trusted Uncle Jed’s gift of seeing things clearly when others couldn’t, so she took the job.

My father was quite surprised to discover that the pumpkin seeds he planted last year decided to sprout in the middle of the melon patch this summer. The melons were coming along quite well—but so were the pumpkins. So well, in fact, that my father was tempted to let the pumpkin plants continue to grow. Yet he knew if he did, the pumpkins would stifle the growth of the melons.

So he had a choice to make. He could either pull up the pumpkins so the melons would have a better chance of flourishing or let the pumpkin plants grow and watch them possibly crowd out the melon plants, which would likely produce a lesser product from both. Pumpkins or melons? This choice was between two good options.

In weighing the two, my father decided to pull up the prosperous pumpkin plants. Not only were they late to sprout, but he decided that he wanted the planned melons more than he wanted the surprise pumpkins.

Like my mother and my grandmothers, my wife, Delores, is a woman of faith. She has never complained about our Church assignments. In 1978 our six little daughters were all under age 12. We accepted a call to preside over a mission in Mexico, leaving behind our home and the year’s supply of food she’d worked hard to store. A few weeks after we accepted the mission call, she told me, “I think our seventh child is on the way.” Delores had no idea what medical care might be available in Mexico, or what having a baby in Mexico might be like. Many years after this experience, she told me that as we were leaving for Mexico on the airplane, she looked at our six beautiful daughters. Silently, she prayed that when we returned home in a few years, each of those six seats would be filled. We came home with eight children—each a blessing from the Lord. Delores likes to say that when we put the Lord’s work first, He blesses all our other work too.

Upon returning to the university after my mission, I found that academic work was really tough for me. As a science and mathematics student, I seemed to have forgotten my basic knowledge of chemistry, physics, and mathematics while I was on my mission. Although my return to the university was hard initially, the things I had learned on my mission—such as researching to find answers—boosted my morale as I studied in school. I am glad that I placed the Lord first in my life and went on a mission. The article “On the Lord’s Team,” by R. Val Johnson in the March 2006 Liahona, confirmed these feelings.Aristotle Kyeremanteng Fokuo, Ghana

In many ways, President Hunter taught his sons without saying a word. “What I know about honesty and integrity has come in large measure by what people have told me about my father,” Richard says. He tells of one Saturday when he accompanied his father to a business meeting in a nearby town. After a while, one of the business men stepped out of the room for a breath of fresh air, and he and Richard talked about what was happening in the meeting.
Richard commented that surely it would be a long time before the project under discussion could begin, since there would be so much legal paperwork involved. No, the man assured him, those involved in the discussion could proceed confidently before all the paperwork was finalized, because they knew that whatever Howard Hunter said he would do, he would do.
Elder Hunter has taken great efforts to visit his children and their families in California whenever possible. While John was studying law in Los Angeles, Elder Hunter would arrange a visit when he passed through on Church assignments; John would take his older children to pick up their grandfather at the air terminal. It happened frequently enough that John’s older children came to know Elder Hunter as “the grandpa who lives at the airport.”
As the grandchildren grew up, and while some of them lived in Utah during their university schooling, Elder Hunter made opportunities to enjoy their presence at general conference times or at other events and activities.
“When I think of Grandpa Hunter, I think more than anything else of an example of a loving husband,” says Robert, his oldest grandson, manager of a branch bank in a Salt Lake City suburb. Family members watched with love and admiration for more than eight years as Elder Hunter nursed his beloved Claire through the illness that finally took her life in 1983.
“You could really sense a loving bond between the two of them,” Robert says. Elder Hunter insisted on caring for her as much as possible himself during the years when a series of strokes left her increasingly dependent. Meanwhile, he continued to handle his Church assignments. He suffered a minor heart attack, but it did not seem to slow him down, his sister says. She and others helped care for Claire as he would allow it.
When finally he was forced to leave his wife in a nursing care facility, he called the place often to check on her, even while he was traveling on Church assignments. Stopping to see her was his first priority after leaving the Church offices for the day or when returning from an out-of-town trip. When she could no longer converse with him, he continued to talk to her during visits.
“He was always in a hurry to see her, to be by her side, and take care of her,” Robert says.
“He did so much for her—so much,” Sister Rasmussen emphasizes.
The wife of a member of the Council of the Twelve, President Hunter says, exerts a “quiet, sustaining influence” which helps her husband to bear the burdens he must carry. Frequently, she must speak, bear testimony, and contribute in a number of other ways. She makes a “great contribution” to a husband’s success in his calling. “I haven’t had my wife to do so now for two years,” he adds. “I guess I didn’t realize what a great support and influence she was until she died. I realize it more now than I ever have.”
There is another love that has helped sustain him through the years of his wife’s illness and since her loss—not a love that could ever take her place, to be sure, but one that uplifts, supports, and cheers. It is the love of the members of his quorum.
“There is a love among the members of the Twelve that surpasses understanding,” he says. “They have the love that I believe Christ talked about.” Associating with them, he explains, has taught him humility, patience, greater faith, and love of fellowman. And those qualities foster a greater desire to serve others.
During more than a quarter of a century in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Howard W. Hunter has helped to move the Church along its upward path. He has been associated with the Church’s genealogy programs for many years (and maintains a personal interest, his son John reports, in gathering family genealogy). Under Elder Hunter’s direction several years ago, goals and guidelines were established that still point the way for the Church’s Genealogical Department.
President Hunter has influenced the Church Educational System as a member of the Church Board of Education and the Brigham Young University Board of Trustees. He has had a strong voice in Church youth programs, particularly in Scouting. He has served as West European Mission director and has employed his business experience as a director of several large industrial or land-holding corporations and other organizations owned by the Church or related to its activities.
But it is the depth of his caring for individuals and the quiet strength of his testimony that have made him beloved to so many Latter-day Saints. His concern is always focused outward. “He has an extraordinary ability to remember people and their circumstances,” his son Richard says. Family and friends as well comment on his amazing recall of people he met years ago and the things they talked about.
He has had the privilege of working daily for many years now with some of the most spiritually attuned men on earth. “You can’t associate with men who have testimonies like theirs without it building your own,” he comments.
Through the years, Elder Hunter has become one of those whose testimony builds others. He has, for a third of a lifetime now, constantly and consistently reaffirmed the witness he bore in the closing session of general conference on 11 October 1959, the day after he was sustained as a member of the Twelve.
“I have a firm, uncompromising conviction that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that the gospel was restored in this latter dispensation by the instrumentality of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I have an abiding conviction of the truthfulness of this fact,” he said.
“I accept, without reservation, the call … and I am willing to devote my life and all that I have to this service.” He has kept that pledge with integrity and love.

I was born in Hong Kong, China. When I was young, I dreamed of living in a beautiful country surrounded by nature.
After I grew up and got married, my husband and I moved to Australia. He was a skilled mechanic and was granted a work visa, which allowed us to stay in Australia for four years. When we both became employed, we received an additional four-year extension on our visas.
During this time, we worked to improve our situation so we could apply for permanent residency. We couldn’t afford to pay for English classes, but a brother and sister in our ward helped us learn. Still, at the end of eight years, it looked like we would have to leave Australia. We fasted and prayed to find a way to stay. Our ward fasted and prayed for us as well.
Our situation looked hopeless. We started to pack and make plans for our return to Hong Kong. One night a friend called and asked about our visas. We explained our situation and he told us that he knew an immigration agent who might be able to help.
The next day we visited with the agent. He quickly put our minds at ease. He would submit the papers for an extension on a different visa—a permanent-residency visa that required us to move out of Sydney and into the countryside.
We moved to a city about one and a half hours north of Sydney. We found a home close to a chapel, surrounded by lush green Australian foliage. We loved our new home and ward.
Soon we were granted temporary visas. My husband and I continued to pray. He fasted every Sunday for six months. We read the scriptures daily and attended the temple weekly.
Then one day we received a call from the immigration agent. We needed to return to the office in Sydney and hand in our passports. They were handed back to us stamped with an approval for permanent residency. We thanked Heavenly Father for this blessing. We had faith that our prayers would be answered, and they were. And my dream of living in a country surrounded by nature had come true.

His parents were not sure either. Lucy and Joseph Sr. both came from Christian families and believed in the Bible and Jesus Christ. Lucy attended church meetings and often brought her children with her. She had been seeking the true church of Jesus Christ since the death of her sister many years earlier.
Once, after falling gravely ill sometime before Joseph’s birth, she had feared that she would die before finding the truth. She sensed a dark and lonely chasm between her and the Savior, and she knew she was unprepared for the next life.
Lying awake all night, she prayed to God, promising Him that if He let her live, she would find the Church of Jesus Christ. As she prayed, the voice of the Lord spoke to her, assuring her that if she would seek, she would find. She had visited more churches since then, but she had still not found the right one. Yet even when it felt like the Savior’s Church was no longer on the earth, she kept searching, trusting that going to church was better than not.18

After months of preparation, the day finally arrived. While I sat in the baptistery awaiting my turn, excitement overcame me as I realized how long Maren, who died nearly 200 years ago, had anticipated this day. It was her day of baptism, and I had the inspiring opportunity of performing the ordinance in her behalf.
Maren Christensdatter became a special person to me because of a Young Women project. The first time I encountered her name was at our stake Family History Center. I was searching through computer files for family names to prepare for temple ordinance work. After having gone through a few family lines with no success, I decided to check the line of my great-grandmother who had recently passed away. To my surprise, I actually found one female name for whom no temple work had been done—my great-great-great-grandmother, Maren Christensdatter.
Over the next few weeks, my Mia Maid class returned to the Family History Center several times to complete our work. We then had to enter the names, along with other information, into a file and submit them so temple cards could be prepared.
Doing baptisms for the dead is always a spiritual experience. But when you do it for your own ancestor, whose name you have found and prepared yourself, it becomes incredibly personal and satisfying. As the young women from our ward entered the baptistery room at the temple that day, I could feel a special spirit there.
And when I was baptized by proxy for Maren, I felt a closeness to her, even though I had never met her. It was an awesome experience to give her this most priceless gift, the opportunity to become a member of the Church.

Illustration by Valerio Fabbretti
Ellie bit her thumbnail nervously. Miss Fitz was going down the rows of desks and asking each student a question, one by one.
“Who is your hero?” Miss Fitz asked Jeremy.
Jeremy didn’t waste a moment answering. “My dad!” he said proudly.
Miss Fitz smiled. “And yours, Sarah?”
Her answer came just as quickly. “Abraham Lincoln.”
Ellie felt her heart thumping as Miss Fitz continued down the row of students. They had been talking about heroes all day, and now everyone was supposed to say who their hero was—in front of the whole class!
Amber and Justin said their moms were their heroes. Walter said his was his grandfather. A few other students said theirs was a king or a president.
Only a few students were left before Miss Fitz would reach Ellie. She had to think of a hero—and fast.
Ellie looked down at her shoes, embarrassed. Coming up with a hero wasn’t the real problem. She already knew who her hero was. It was Jesus Christ. He had healed the sick, raised the dead, and paid the price for everyone’s sins. He was the greatest hero who ever lived! She was just too afraid to say it.
Ellie bit her thumbnail again at the thought of telling the whole class that Jesus Christ was her hero. What if Jeremy laughed at her? What if Sarah and Amber whispered about her at recess?
Of course she knew Jesus Christ was her hero. But that didn’t mean everyone else had to know too.
Miss Fitz stopped right in front of Ellie’s desk and smiled. “And who is your hero, Ellie?”
Ellie glanced from the row of students beside her up to Miss Fitz. “Abraham Lincoln,” she whispered.
Miss Fitz beamed. “Good!” she said as she walked to the next student in the row.
As soon as she was gone, Ellie’s shoulders dropped in relief. Thank goodness that was over. The last thing she needed was for everyone in class to know that her hero was—
“Jesus Christ,” a voice said.
Ellie’s eyes widened as she slowly looked over. There—only a little farther down the row—sat a small boy with rumpled hair. He was skinny and shy, and he always sat at the back of the classroom. Ellie didn’t even know his name. She couldn’t remember him ever saying a single word—until now.
A few students turned to stare at the boy, but he didn’t notice them. He just looked up at Miss Fitz and spoke again. “My hero is Jesus Christ.”
Miss Fitz smiled brightly and continued down the row. But Ellie looked at the boy in amazement. She had been afraid to tell everyone about her hero, but he hadn’t. He didn’t even go to her church! But he knew how important it was to stand as an example of Jesus Christ, even when it was hard.
Ellie smiled at the boy. She wouldn’t be afraid to say who her hero was anymore. After all, she had two of them now.

A friend of mine helped his son set goals in this manner. Don asked his son what he wanted to be, whom he would want to be like. His son named a member of the ward who lived nearby, a man he had admired for some time. Don drove his son to where the man lived.
As they sat in their automobile in front of his home, they observed the man’s possessions and his way of life. They also discussed his kindness and generosity, his good name and integrity. They discussed the price their neighbor had paid to become what he was: the years of hard work, the schooling and training required, the sacrifices made, the challenges encountered. The affluence and seeming ease with which he now lived had come about as the result of diligent toil toward his righteous goals and the blessings of the Lord.
The son selected other men whom he deemed models of successful and righteous living and learned from a wise father the stories of their lives. Thereupon at an early age he set his own goal of what he wanted to become. And with his goal before him as a guide by which to make other decisions along the way, he was prepared to stay on his chosen course.

Soon after our daughter’s birth, my husband’s job prevented him from attending church most Sundays. With a new baby, five young sons, and my husband no longer available to help me, I was having a difficult time getting to church.
Many Sundays we arrived late, and sometimes we didn’t get there until sacrament meeting was over and Primary and Sunday School had begun. I spent most of my time walking the halls with my fussy and tired baby.
After several weeks, I was exhausted. We were going to church more out of habit than for anything else. I began to ask myself, Why even bother? It seemed that the only results I was getting were stiff muscles and a headache.
I began to pray for guidance. I asked my Father in Heaven why I should go to church when it was so difficult. I knew attending church was right, but I needed to know why it was important for me personally. When I didn’t receive an answer right away, I continued to ask.
When Easter Sunday came, I again spent the time during church walking the halls of our meetinghouse with my baby and whispering a prayer in my heart: Why should I bother to come? Why is it important for me to continue this struggle?
During Primary class time, I walked past the classrooms and looked inside. Every Primary class was having a lesson about the Savior’s death and Resurrection. I was amazed at the reverence and awe I saw in the children’s faces. Every one of them, mine included, was caught up in the story of our Savior’s greatest gift to us.
Suddenly it was clear why I needed to continue in my struggle to bring my children to church. Maybe I wasn’t getting as much as I wanted from my attendance, but my children were benefiting from their attendance more than I had imagined.
Occasionally we still have a difficult time getting to church. But when we do, I stop and remember the expressions I saw on my children’s faces that Easter morning. I know church is where we belong, and I often thank the Lord for showing me why.

As Krista helped her older sister prepare dinner, she often stopped and looked out the window at the rain. She didn’t mind the storm, but the girls were anxious for Father to return with word about Mother who had taken the baby to a hospital hundreds of miles away for surgery.
Dinner was all ready when Father finally arrived home. Before eating, however, he suggested that they kneel down for a blessing on the food and a special prayer for health and protection for each one in the family.
The storm seemed to grow worse every minute. While the girls were doing the dishes, a patient of Father’s called. He needed emergency treatment for an aching tooth.
Krista wanted to ride to the office with Father so together they splashed through heavy water to the car and then headed toward his office.
It was still raining when Father finished treating the man’s tooth and they all left the office. Just as Father made a turn off the freeway, someone on a high bank above them frantically honked a warning horn, but the warning came too late!
Rushing floodwaters poured onto the car, lifting and turning it. Father managed to roll down a window and push Krista partway through so two boys on the bank could pull her out and carry her to safety, but it was impossible for him to climb out of the car as it swept along on the crest of the flood.
Then he felt himself being torn out of the car. The last sound he heard before he was sucked into a long dark drain-tunnel was Krista screaming, “Daddy, Daddy,” as she struggled to get away from those who held her. Gasping for air he was washed through the drain. Strong arms lifted him out of the whirling water at the end of the tunnel.
After long moments of frantic suspense, Krista and her father were together again, cut and bruised but somehow miraculously alive.
Safe in her father’s arms, Krista breathed with relief.
“We certainly had a quick answer to our special prayer, didn’t we?” Father asked.
Krista looked up at him and smiled. She couldn’t find the words to express her feeling of love and gratitude so she just nodded in full agreement.

My nephew’s presents. Some years ago we were gathered as a family to commemorate Christmas. All the adults and teens were busy with preparations for the family dinner. Amid this Christmas activity, my youngest nephew, Fabinho, asked me for a paper, colored pencils, and colored markers. Busy with Christmas preparations, I gave them to him, hoping he would entertain himself.
The time for dinner arrived, and after a prayer of thanksgiving, five-year-old Fabinho asked for everyone’s attention and gave each of us a little slip of paper that expressed his love with a colored picture and imprecise handwriting.
Everyone received a little note, even the uncle we saw only at Christmastime. Fabinho felt everyone was worthy of his attention and his careful, childlike efforts. His simple presents and attitude caused me to think of the Savior and His teachings that we should love our neighbor and give our best.Ana F., Brazil

Mother couldn’t help noticing the serious, thoughtful look on Eric’s face as they drove home from church. “How was Primary today, Eric?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn today?” Mother asked.
“We talked about choosing the right in our class, and Sharing Time was about temples.”
“I can’t think of anything more special to talk about than temples,” Mother cheerfully replied. But she noticed that the faraway look was still in Eric’s eyes as they pulled into the driveway. “After you change your clothes, would you please help me set the table for dinner?” she asked.
As they were setting the table, Eric asked, “You and Dad were married in the temple, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So that means I’m sealed to you for eternity?”
“Right again,” Mother replied.
“I won’t get to go inside the temple until I’m grown up, will I?”
Mother reminded Eric that his brother, Nathan, who was twelve and a deacon, had gone to the temple the month before and had been baptized for the dead, and how he, Eric, could do that, too, when he was twelve and held the Aaronic Priesthood. She also told him that when he was nineteen and ordained an elder, he could go through the temple for his own endowments before leaving on his mission.
Eric smiled at Mother, “I’m really looking forward to doing both of those things, but it’s not the same as what Joey did. When Sister Jones asked today in Sharing Time if anyone had a special experience to tell about the temple, Joey told about the missionaries teaching his family and about their baptism. He said that a year after they were baptized, they went to the temple as a family and were sealed together. He told about how beautiful the temple is inside and about how special it was to be dressed all in white and kneel down by the altar with his mom and dad and brothers and sisters.
“Mom, that sounds so exciting! I wish I had a story about the temple that I could share.”
Mother’s eyes sparkled. “You do, Eric. I’ll tell you all about it after dinner.”
Mother always fixed someone’s favorite dinner on Sunday, and of course the best part was dessert. Today, though, Eric was anxious for a different kind of after-dinner treat. It made his day when his older sister, Angie, and Dad volunteered to clean up the dishes so that Mother could tell him the special temple story right away.
They went to the family room, and Mother pulled her book of remembrance from a shelf and turned to a picture of a man with white hair and a white beard. She told Eric, “Welcome Chapman was my grandmother’s grandfather. While still a young man, Welcome heard rumors of a Joseph Smith, who was living in western New York, and who claimed to have a golden book that was given to him by an angel, and to have had visions and revelations. He also claimed that he had seen Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. He said that They had instructed him to organize a new church.
Eric looked up at the picture on the wall of the Salt Lake Temple with a new feeling of reverence. He felt proud that one of his ancestors had cut stone for the beautiful temple. He also felt proud as he thought of the good and faithful life Welcome had lived.
Eric gave Mother a big hug and kiss and thanked her for telling him about Grandpa Welcome. “You know, Mom, not only do I have a temple story to share, but I also have a neat Grandpa that I didn’t know about before. I want to live my life like Grandpa Welcome did and do what Jesus wants me to do so I can go to the temple someday too.”

The girls enjoy going to Primary in the nearby town of Belfair. Their teachers lovingly challenge them to learn and grow in the gospel. Larisa’s teacher, Sister Crowell, helps her make fun things, like a faith plant and paper dolls from different countries. Michelle’s teacher, Sister Reynolds, challenged her class to bear their testimonies. Michelle said that one of the hardest things she’s ever done was follow Sister Reynolds up to the front of the chapel to bear her testimony, but that afterward she felt very good and was glad that she had done it.

Brethren, we have had a rich experience this night, listening to the servants of the Lord. They have given to us words of truth and righteousness. I hope that these words have sunk deep into the hearts of all those who have been listening tonight.
This morning Elder Howard W. Hunter spoke of one of the presidents of the Church, Wilford Woodruff, and it stirred my memory of some experiences of President Woodruff that I had been reading about. I would like to tell you of two or three of them while we are concluding this meeting. All of these experiences happened to him while he was a youth like those of you holding the Aaronic Priesthood.
President Woodruff was one of the great spiritual giants of this dispensation. The Lord gave him many dreams and visions; he baptized thousands of converts, as was explained to us today, and he performed many, many miracles. Few men have enjoyed more of the guidance of the Holy Spirit than did President Woodruff. He was an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, was valiant and true all his days, and, in the provinces of the Lord, he was the fourth president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He is the one who dedicated the Salt Lake Temple in 1893, and it was to him that the founders of the American nation appeared in the St. George Temple, seeking to have the temple ordinances performed for them. That was very unusual, brethren, and those kinds of miracles and visions and revelations were rather unusual, as you would know. These men of the American Constitution had lived in a day when the gospel was not upon the earth, but they were upright, good men who were entitled to all of the blessings which come to us.
We all need heroes to honor and admire; we need people after whom we can pattern our lives. For us Christ is the chiefest of these. “What manner of men ought ye to be?” he asked his Nephite disciples. His answer, “Verily I say unto you, even as I am.” (3 Ne. 27:27.) Christ is our pattern, our guide, our prototype, and our friend. We seek to be like him so that we can always be with him. In a lesser degree the apostles and prophets who have lived as Christ lived also become examples for us.
Coming back to the thought of this special vision: Brother Woodruff saw to it through the authorities at the temple there that these people received their endowments and the blessings to which they were entitled. The wives went in and did the work for the women, who were anxious that this work be done. Now you can see why Elder Royden G. Derrick spoke to us today about temple service. There are millions of people in the spirit world who are anxious that this work be done for them, realizing that they have come to a halt. They cannot go further until the work has been done for them.
Brother Woodruff said:
“The first sermon that I ever heard in this Church was in 1833, by old father Zera Pulsipher, who died in the south, after having lived to be considerably over eighty years old. That sermon was what I had prayed for from my childhood,” he said. “When I heard it I had a testimony for myself that it was true. I received it with every sentiment of my heart. He preached in a schoolhouse upon a farm that we owned in Oswego County, New York. He opened the door for any remarks to be made. The house was crowded. The first thing I knew I stood on top of a bench before the people, not knowing what I got up for. But I said to my neighbors and friends, ‘I want you to be careful what you say as touching these men (there were two of them) and their testimony, for they are servants of God, and they have testified unto us the truth—principles that I have been looking for from my childhood.’
“I went forth and was baptized. I was ordained a teacher. I was always sorry that I was not a deacon first, for I had a desire to bear the priesthood in its various degrees as far as I was worthy. I had had a desire for years, not only to hear the gospel, but to have the privilege and power of preaching it to my fellow men. I was a miller by trade, and I spent many a midnight hour in the mill calling upon the Lord for light and truth, and praying that I might hear the gospel of Christ, and be able to teach it to my fellow men. I rejoiced in it when I did receive it.” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, p. 304.)
President Woodruff was born March 1, 1807; he was baptized December 31, 1833, when he was twenty-six years old, and was ordained a teacher on January 25, 1834.
What we learn from this experience is that he prayed in his childhood to know the truth, and in his young manhood he spent many nights calling upon the Lord. We learn that he desired to preach the gospel, that his heart was right, and that he immediately believed the gospel when he heard it preached.
Young people should seek to gain testimonies and should desire to go on missions. We appreciated what was said about the missions this afternoon by President Ezra Taft Benson. All young men in the Church should be very eager to go on a mission, and they should also assist their parents to fill missions after the families are raised.
Now for the second experience of Brother Woodruff: “When I was a boy eleven years old,” President Woodruff says, “I had a very interesting dream, part of which was fulfilled to the very letter. In this dream I saw a great gulf, a place where all the world had to enter at death, before doing which they had to drop their worldly goods. I saw an aged man with a beaver hat and a broadcloth suit. The man looked very sorrowful. I saw him come with something on his back, which he had to drop among the general pile before he could enter the gulf. I was then but a boy. A few years after this my father and mother removed to Farmington, and there I saw that man. I knew him the moment I saw him. His name was Chauncy Deming. In a few years afterwards he was taken sick and died. I attended his funeral,” President Woodruff said. “He was what you may call a miser, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. When the coffin was being lowered into the grave my dream came to me, and that night his son-in-law found one hundred thousand dollars in a cellar belonging to the old man. I name this merely to show that in this dream I had manifested to me certain things that were true. I think of all the inhabitants of the world having to leave their goods when they come to the grave.
“After this scene had passed before me I was placed in a great temple. It was called the kingdom of God. The first man who came to me was Uncle Ozem Woodruff and his wife whom I helped into the temple.
“In process of time, after embracing the gospel, and while on my first mission to Tennessee, I told Brother Patten of my dream, who told me that in a few years I would meet that man and baptize him. That was fulfilled to the very letter, for I afterwards baptized my uncle and his wife and some of the children; also my own father and stepmother and stepsister; and a Methodist priest or classleader—in fact, I baptized everybody in my father’s house. I merely mention this to show that dreams sometimes do come to pass in life.” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, pp. 283–84.)
Alma tells us that the Lord “Imparteth his word by angels unto men, yea, not only men but women also. Now this is not all; little children do have words given unto them many times which confound the wise and the learned.” (Alma 32:23.)
Young children are just as much entitled to the blessings of the Lord as are their parents. Joseph Smith was only fourteen years of age when the Father and the Son appeared to him to usher in this dispensation. He was seventeen when Moroni visited him and revealed to him the hiding place of the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated.
Young people should study the gospel, prepare themselves for service in the Church, and keep the commandments as diligently as it is possible to do.
The third experience:
“… While holding the office of teacher I went to Missouri in Zion’s Camp. After arriving in Missouri, having gone through many trials and tribulations, and suffering from cholera, which caused us to lay in the grave fifteen of our brethren, we stayed at Brother Lyman Wight’s. While at Lyman Wight’s, I attended council meetings with the Prophet, with David Whitmer, with Oliver Cowdery, and other leading brethren of the Church. David Whitmer was the president of the stake of Zion. Brother Joseph reproved him very sharply, as well as some of the other brethren, because of their lack in fulfilling the commandments of God and doing their duty.
“While at that place I had a great desire in my heart to go and preach the gospel. I went off one Sunday night by myself into a hickory grove, several hundred yards from the settlement, and I asked the Lord to open the door for me that I might go and preach the gospel. I did not want to preach the gospel for any honor I might get on this earth; for I thoroughly understood, as far as a man could in my condition, what a preacher would have to pass through. It was not honor, nor wealth, nor gold, nor silver, that I desired: But I knew this was the gospel of Christ, revealed to me by the power of God; I knew this was the Church of Christ; I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet of God; and I had a desire that I might preach that gospel to the nations of the earth. I asked the Lord to give me that privilege. The Lord answered that prayer, and said I should have my desire granted. I got up rejoicing. I walked about two hundred yards out in the open road; and when I got into the road there stood Judge Higbee. Said he, ‘Brother Woodruff, the Lord has revealed to me that it is your duty to be ordained to go and preach the gospel.’
“Said I, ‘Has he?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘If the Lord wants me to preach the gospel, I am perfectly willing to go and do that.’ I did not tell him I had been praying for this.
“The consequence was I attended a council at Lyman Wight’s, and was called and ordained to the office of a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, while other brethren were ordained elders. I was called by Bishop Partridge to go to the southern country on a mission. Bishop Partridge asked me a great many questions, and I asked him questions. It was then dangerous for any of our brethren to go through Jackson County [Missouri.] He wanted me to go to Arkansas, and the road led square through Jackson County. I asked him if we should go through there (I had a companion with me—an elder).
“Said he, ‘If you have got faith to do it, you may; I haven’t.’
“I thought that was a curious remark from a bishop.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘The Lord says we must travel without purse or scrip; shall we do it?’
“Said he, ‘That is the law of God; if you have faith to do it, you can do it.’
“He said he had hardly got faith to go into Jackson County. However, we started and went through Jackson County. We came near losing our lives, and were saved almost by a miracle. We traveled through Arkansas and other parts.
“But I do not want to dwell on these things. I merely wish to say that I went out as a priest, and my companion as an elder, and we traveled thousands of miles, and had many things manifested to us. I desire to impress upon you the fact that it does not make any difference whether a man is a priest or an apostle, if he magnifies his calling. A priest holds the key of the ministering of angels. Never in my life, as an apostle, as a seventy, or as an elder, have I ever had more of the protection of the Lord than while holding the office as a priest. The Lord revealed to me by visions, by revelations, and by the Holy Spirit, many things that lay before me.” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, pp. 298–300.)
President Woodruff sought the privilege to go on a mission when he was a teacher, and he went forth as a missionary when he was a priest. The Lord blessed him and preserved him and gave him many visions and revelations.
I just wish to say this in conclusion: It is wonderful to meet this large body of brethren who hold the priesthood and I sincerely feel that the men who have come here tonight—the men and boys—reverence and appreciate their priesthood and the privileges that are given to them. We will close this meeting with our love and appreciation to all men and boys and their wives and mothers in all the lands of this world. We ask them to be devout and faithful and true to all of the testimonies they have. I bear this testimony to you that this work is divine. We have a special work to do and we must do it, and I pray this all in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Years later I thought of that moment again. My wife and I were being taught by the missionaries. The missionaries asked me, “Do you believe that you can become like God?” I had never thought about it. But I thought, If Heavenly Father is actually my Father, He would want the best for me, like my dad did. He would want me to be able to become like Him. So I said to the missionaries, “Yes, I believe I can be like my Heavenly Father.”
The moment I answered, I knew what I said was true.