Gospel Story Finder

My parents were hardworking. They made every penny stretch as far as possible. That was probably the reason everything they gave me was always two or three sizes too large.
When I was thirteen years old, I wanted football shoulder pads and a helmet more than anything else. On Christmas morning, I opened my packages and there they were: shoulder pads and a helmet—sized to fit Goliath!
“Mother, they’re too big,” I complained.
“Be grateful for what you have, Joseph,” she said. “Don’t worry—you’ll grow into them.”
When I put on the new equipment, the shoulder pads hung so far over my shoulders that about the only things they protected were my elbows.
Even though I stuffed cotton and newspapers into the helmet, it jostled every time I took a step. When I ran, it would turn and turn until I was looking out through an ear hole. One time I rambled for a long gain right into a tree. Each time I was tackled, the helmet would spin 180 degrees and I’d get up looking like my head had spun with it. How I yearned to grow into that helmet!
I had even more important growing to do. My father was truly a great man. I remember one day putting my feet in my father’s shoes. I was amazed at the size. Will I ever be big enough to fill his shoes? I wondered. Can I ever grow into the man my father is?
I look back with tenderness to my dear mother’s encouraging words, “Don’t worry, Joseph—you’ll grow into them.”
In a similar way, we all need to learn how to grow into our duties as members of the Lord’s Church. Heavenly Father loves you. He is the Father of your spirit. That makes you His literal child. As such, you have inherited the potential to become like Him. His greatest desire is that you grow in this life, becoming more like Him so that one day you can return to His presence.
It is my prayer that we may all grow into the kind of people our Heavenly Father wants us to be.

I know a young man who was thrilled to be selected for an all-star basketball team to play in a tournament in another state. The first evening at the hotel, the other roommates decided to watch pornographic movies. This boy left the room and walked the city by himself well into the night until the movies were over. I am sure it was embarrassing, lonely, and challenging. But that is courage; that is manhood in its truest sense. And I say, “Behold a man!”—an 18-year-old boy turned man. I know hundreds of young men who have withstood ridicule and embarrassment to turn down drugs, alcohol, and illicit sex in order to turn to serve one another, provide a righteous example, or defend the principles of righteousness. All young men must face the wiles of Satan. It is impossible to escape this fight. But it is always possible to come out victorious. Yes, a true man is strong enough to withstand the wiles of Satan.

I sought permission from Elder Russell M. Nelson to share with you a lesson of sorrow, tempered by knowledge of our Heavenly Father’s plan.

Elder and Sister Nelson have been blessed with nine daughters, followed by one son. They are a happy family, a close-knit family. When the children were younger, they gathered around Mother and Father one evening, and Father proceeded to teach them. He said, “Many couples are being called to serve as missionaries and, in the case of mission presidents, to take their children with them to the areas of their assignment.” Then Dad posed the critical question: “If your mother and I were called to such an assignment, would you be willing to go with us?”

He awaited their responses. One daughter said, “Daddy, they wouldn’t call you, since I’m a cheerleader at high school!”

An older child added, “I couldn’t go. I’m a student at the university.”

The teenage responses continued, until little Emily, with the purity of her soul, answered, “Daddy, if you were called, I would go with you.”

Actually, each of the children would be willing to go, but Emily brought tender tears with her profound yet simple reply.

The years moved along hurriedly. The children married. Grandchildren arrived. Then dreaded cancer struck Emily, and after a valiant and courageous battle she was called home.

Elder Nelson spoke at the funeral services. I’ve never heard a finer or more tender message. He spoke of the plan of salvation and described the promises of God pertaining to the eternal nature of the family. Quietly he said, “Emily has just graduated a little early from mortality.” What a teaching moment!

As the large family walked behind the casket, Elder Nelson carried in his arms two of Emily’s small children. All in attendance became part of truth taught and lessons learned. We were inspired to gaze heavenward.

I have experienced many opportunities. One occurred 21 years ago, prior to the time when the German Democratic Republic—or East Germany, as it was more commonly known—was freed from Communist rule. I was visiting with the East German state secretary, Minister Gysi. At that time our temple at Freiberg, in East Germany, was under construction, along with two or three meetinghouses. Minister Gysi and I visited on a number of subjects, including our worldwide building program. He then asked, “Why is your church so wealthy that you can afford to build buildings in our country and throughout the world? How do you get your money?”
I answered that the Church is not wealthy but that we follow the ancient biblical principle of tithing, which principle is reemphasized in our modern scripture. I explained also that our Church has no paid ministry and indicated that these were two reasons why we were able to build the buildings then under way, including the beautiful temple at Freiberg.
Minister Gysi was most impressed with the information I presented, and I was very grateful I was able to answer his questions.

A couple of years ago my grandson Christian was turning eight and planning his baptismal service with great anticipation. He asked his mother if I could be one of the speakers and share my conversion story. When I asked him why he wanted me to do that, he replied, “Grandma, that is so important. Do you realize that if you hadn’t accepted the gospel, I wouldn’t be getting baptized? I wouldn’t even be who I am.”

I don’t know if missionaries realize the far-reaching impact of their work. In my own family, the blessings of the gospel have now touched four generations. Didn’t President Gordon B. Hinckley say that “when we save a girl, we save generations”? I got married in the temple and have eight children. They are all faithful members of the Church, endowed in the temple. Six of them are now married and have their own children. At present there are 34 of us. And that is not all. Both my husband and I served missions, and our two sons and three of our six daughters have also served missions. Collectively we have helped hundreds embrace the gospel in many countries. Some of those converts and their children have also served missions.

Martin was born in the United States. But then his family moved to a country in Europe called the Czech Republic. The people there spoke Czech. Martin knew some of the Czech words his Primary teacher used. He could say ahoj, which meant “hi.” But he mostly spoke English.
Martin loved his school. He had an English teacher and a Czech teacher. There was a big playroom with fun wooden toys.
One day Martin was playing with puppets when a new boy came into the classroom. The English teacher said, “This is Josef. It’s his first day of school. He doesn’t know much English yet.”
Josef had a worried look on his face. Martin thought he must be scared on his first day of school. Maybe Josef couldn’t understand the English teacher.
The teacher led Josef to a table with wooden puzzles on it. Without meaning to, Josef knocked over the whole stack of puzzles. Crash! The puzzle pieces flew everywhere! Josef looked like he might cry.
Martin wanted to tell Josef not to feel bad. It was just an accident. But Martin didn’t know how to tell him in Czech. He stopped playing with his puppets and walked over to the puzzle table. He smiled and started stacking one of the puzzles. He showed Josef how to put it back together. Soon he and Josef finished all the puzzles. They put them back on the table.
For the first time that day, Josef smiled. Martin felt very happy. He had made a new friend without saying a word.

“Can you tell me what talents Taylor has that I could share with the class?” my eight-year-old’s Primary teacher asked me. She had telephoned because Taylor’s class would be talking about talents they had received from Heavenly Father.
My mind went blank. I thought back over the past eight years, trying to come up with an answer. At four days old Taylor had suffered a stroke that left him with profound brain damage and an uncontrollable seizure disorder. He is unable to see, speak, or communicate. He has never progressed past a six-month-old child’s level of mental development. He spends most of his days in a wheelchair as we care for him and try to keep him comfortable.
We cheered when he learned to giggle or drink from a special cup, and we celebrated when he could stand and take a few steps. But while we cheered and celebrated on the outside, on the inside we wept with the realization that these small achievements were probably as significant as any Taylor would attain. Somehow I didn’t think this was what his Primary teacher wanted to hear.
I cleared my throat and uncomfortably answered, “Taylor really doesn’t have any talents that I can think of.”
This kind sister then forever altered my relationship with my son by her response.
“As I thought about this lesson, I realized that every child of God has a talent,” she said. “I would suggest that Taylor’s talent is that he teaches others to serve. If it is OK with you, I would like to talk to our class about how I have noticed Taylor’s talent here at church. I have seen the other Primary children learn to push his wheelchair, open doors for him, and overcome their fear to wipe his chin with a handkerchief when needed. I think that is a great talent by which he blesses our lives.”
I murmured in agreement, and we quietly said good-bye. I wonder if that Primary teacher knew what a profound impact that conversation would have on my life. Taylor remained the same. He still requires a great deal of care. Hospitals, doctors, and therapists still take up a large part of my life. But my perspective changed, and I began to notice his talent.
I saw how people around us would alter their behavior as they sought to care for him. I also noticed how he reminds us to slow down, notice his needs, and become more compassionate, observant, and patient.
I do not know God’s purpose in having Taylor face such daunting challenges, but I believe that his Primary teacher gave me a small glimpse of it. He is here to share his talent with us. He is here to give us the opportunity to learn how to serve.

I first heard the wonderful story of “The Little Engine That Could” when I was about 10 years old. As a child, I was interested in the story because the train cars were filled with toy animals, toy clowns, jackknives, puzzles, and books as well as delicious things to eat. However, the engine that was pulling the train over the mountain broke down. The story relates that a big passenger engine came by and was asked to pull the cars over the mountain, but he wouldn’t [lower himself] to pull the little train. Another engine came by, but he wouldn’t stoop to help the little train over the mountain because he was a freight engine. An old engine came by, but he would not help because, he said, “I am so tired. … I can not. I can not. I can not.”

Then a little blue engine came down the track, and she was asked to pull the cars over the mountain to the children on the other side. The little engine responded, “I’m not very big. … They use me only for switching in the yard. I have never been over the mountain.” But she was concerned about disappointing the children on the other side of the mountain if they didn’t get all of the goodies in the cars. So she said, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” And she hooked herself to the little train. “Puff, puff, chug, chug, went the Little Blue Engine. ‘I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can.’” With this attitude, the little engine reached the top of the mountain and went down the other side, saying, “I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could.”

I hope we can all be like the “Little Engine That Could.” It wasn’t very big, had only been used for switching cars, and had never been over a mountain, but it was willing. That little engine hooked on to the stranded train, chugged up to the top of the mountain, and puffed down the mountain, saying, “I thought I could.” Each of us must climb mountains that we have never climbed before.

When she was 16 years old, Sister Michelle D. Craig learned that her family would be moving from Provo, Utah, USA, to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, USA, so her father could begin an assignment to serve as a mission president.
She was happy to be with her family, but the move left young Michelle “lonely socially” during her junior and senior years of high school.
“Those were really formative years,” Sister Craig said. “Instead of relying on friends, I relied on my family and my testimony, and church became a lifeline.” She valued most her relationship with Heavenly Father and the Savior.

When I was 17 my mother found out she had breast cancer. The shock overwhelmed my family and brought me to my knees in deep prayer. I cried for almost an hour, asking God why He would let this happen and if He would heal my mom. Relief began to come a few days later when our ward members, extended family, friends, and neighbors learned of the news. They rushed to our aid. Meals were brought in, kind words and deeds were exchanged, concern and sympathy given. The love we felt from them was deep.
But even though we received so much help, I fell into a deep depression. I didn’t care what happened to me. I stopped doing things I loved. I became lazy and careless with chores, schoolwork, and my Church calling. I saw my situation and the extra responsibility placed upon me as a great burden. I felt I could do everything myself and did not need anyone’s help.
Satan worked especially hard on me, telling me that I should feel burdened, that God wanted me to be unhappy, and that I wasn’t anything special. Sadly, for a while I believed it. I couldn’t see the bright side of anything. I did not see myself as a daughter of God. Confusion blinded me, and I couldn’t see my many blessings. I couldn’t even look in the mirror. I felt pain and heartache.
Thankfully, a close friend spent a lot of time helping me, and my siblings supported me as well. I became more open with my parents, who in turn became more open with me. But still I struggled.
My mom would often comfort me when I felt down. When I felt like all hope was gone, it was nice to have someone to talk to and help me out. She would come home in between treatments and iron our clothing, prepare meals, and offer us comfort and counsel. It amazed me how she could endure such trials and yet be so selfless.
When I discussed my depression with her one day, she told me that just because I cried and admitted I needed help, it did not make me weak. She was taking care of me when I should have taken care of her.
After one of her many surgeries, my mom was in the recovery room. At the time, I couldn’t help but think I needed my own recovery room. I had no idea where to start the healing process, but I had to do something.
So I started renewing my talents and abilities as well as developing new ones. I cooked and did the laundry. I took more walks to think. I sang solos. I played the clarinet and piano more and began playing better. I read more books. I started to listen to more uplifting music. I surrounded myself with advice from Church leaders and other valuable sources. I became closer to God and my Savior through personal prayer, fasting, and scripture study.
Still I felt like my peace was fleeting. It was hard when I wanted to be at peace on some days, and instead I would feel the sadness. The mood swings became even more difficult. It seemed my journey for peace had only begun.
Then I went to the temple to do baptisms for the dead with my Young Women class. I thought about my problems while in the temple and while flipping through the pages of my scriptures. I found myself reading about the Savior in Isaiah 53:4, “Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.”
A few minutes later, the confusion that had blinded me and caused me so much pain completely vanished. The Lord broke through the darkness and the despair of my heart and left the peace of the Spirit instead. I had a sense of clarity and happiness that I hadn’t felt for a long time. I saw how many blessings I had received and how much everyone had done for me and my family. I saw how close my family, friends, and I had become. I saw myself as a truly beautiful daughter of God.
There in the temple I found my recovery room.
Looking back on this experience, I realize that I now have more empathy and compassion for those less fortunate than I am. I know where to recover. The hardest year of my life became the best year of my life.

I express gratitude for a Sunday School teacher [named] Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She made the scriptures actually come to life.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we [imagined] cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever.
None of us will forget that gray Sunday morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that day was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Lucy Gertsch asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. We [had] learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.

The selection of a site for the New Zealand Temple illustrates this point. President Wendell B. Mendenhall of the San Joaquin Stake was assigned by President David O. McKay to investigate possible temple sites in the lands of the South Seas. He investigated potential locations in Auckland, New Zealand, where the mission headquarters are located but felt no satisfaction.
“Then one day I felt I should go to Hamilton to visit the college. While in the car on the way, the whole thing came to me in an instant: The temple should be there by the college. The Church facilities for construction were already there, and that was the center of the population of the mission. Then, in my mind, I could see the area even before I arrived, and I could envision the hill where the temple should stand. As soon as I arrived at the college and drove over the top of the hill, my vision was confirmed. In my heart I felt that the Lord had especially made this hill for his temple, everything about it was so majestic and beautiful.” (Allie Howe, “A Temple in the South Pacific,” Improvement Era, Nov. 1955, p. 811.)

“I’m scared!” Adam blurted out as he and Mom drove to the church.
“There’s no need to be scared, Son.”
“But what will he ask me? What if I don’t know the answers? Will I still get to be baptized?”
“You don’t need to worry. It will be very much like the father interviews you have each month,” Mom replied, parking the car.
“But why do we have to do it in the bishop’s office?” Adam asked as he shut the car door.
“Because that’s where he interviews all the boys and girls before they’re baptized. I think it helps them understand how important baptism is.”
Adam and Mom sat down outside the bishop’s door. Soon it opened. “Hello, you two,” he greeted them warmly. “Adam, come in. I’ve been looking forward to our visit all day.”
Mom gave Adam a smile of encouragement as the door closed behind him.
After a few questions about school, the bishop asked, “Adam, do you love Jesus?”
Adam nodded.
“Would you tell me what you’re doing to show Him that you love Him.”
“Well, I want to be baptized like He was. And I try to be a good example to my friends so they’ll want to know about the Church.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
“I pay my tithing, go to church, and say my prayers. And I’m preparing to serve a mission.”
“Excellent! I want you to know that I appreciate how kind and helpful you are to others, too,” the bishop added. “That’s another important way you show love for the Savior. Let’s read a scripture in Mosiah 18:10 about baptism.”
Adam took the book from the bishop and carefully read: “‘Now I say unto you, if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a covenant with him, that ye will serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon you?’”
“Adam, are you willing to serve the Lord and keep His commandments?” the bishop asked.
“Yes!”
“Well then, you’re ready to be baptized.”
The two stood up. The bishop shook Adam’s hand. Then he gave Adam a big hug. “Congratulations! I’m very, very proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Adam said with a grin.

If you can imagine this situation, you can understand a little of what Gina Paulino, of the Hingham Massachusetts Stake, went through before joining the Church.
Years before she was taught the gospel, 11-year-old Gina told her mother she believed that “there has to be just one church that is Jesus Christ’s. All these churches can’t be true, because they all teach different things.”
And she believed that “there must be an existence in heaven before we came here.”
And that “there must be different levels in heaven because not everyone has the same amount of goodness.”
And that “people who have died and weren’t able to hear the gospel message—someone must be able to stand in for them so they can be baptized.”
Young Gina believed all these truths before she had read the Book of Mormon or met with the missionaries or even attended a Latter-day Saint meeting. Gina’s mother had learned a little about the gospel more than 20 years ago from her sister. But Gina’s mother didn’t join the Church then because her husband wasn’t ready to do so. So when Gina told her mother about these beliefs, her mom would cry and say, “You’re right. There is a church that believes that.”
Gina’s mother was baptized in 1998, when Gina was 13. Gina knew then the Church is true, but her dad wanted her to wait until she was 18 to be baptized.
At age 15, Gina asked her dad again if she could join the Church. They talked for several hours. She told him how much she wanted to get baptized and that she knew the Church is true. He agreed to let her attend church and Young Women. At that time, only two other teenage girls attended Gina’s branch.
Seven months later, Gina’s father said she could be baptized.
With that good news, Gina began taking the discussions, which were held at the meetinghouse. Gina’s mother was there, as were a couple of other members of the branch. Gina’s talks with her mother in the past few years had given Gina a basic understanding of the gospel, but the missionary lessons strengthened her testimony of the Atonement and taught her the importance of baptismal covenants. She learned to abide by Church standards like dressing modestly to show respect for her body.
Shortly before Gina was baptized in December 2001, her nonmember friends left her. They thought Gina was joining a cult. But Gina didn’t let that stop her, because joining the Church was so important to her.
A couple weeks after her baptism, Gina drove two hours to her first Church activity: a semi-formal dance. Gina knew only one person there. At the next activity, ice skating, she met more Latter-day Saint teens and exchanged e-mail addresses with them. In the months following her baptism, she began to get to know more youth in her stake.
As the only active teen in her branch, Gina took home-study seminary. She started it a few months before she was baptized. She studied the scriptures on her own, then met with her teacher at the church once a week. When Gina’s teacher moved out of the state, Gina’s mother volunteered to teach. They had seminary every morning at 6 a.m.
Gina enjoyed being the only student because she didn’t have to compete with other students to ask questions. “My mom and I grew so much closer,” Gina says. “We had that connection. I absolutely loved doing seminary with my mom.”
As a new member, Gina wanted to get as much from seminary as possible—to catch up for all those years without the scriptures. What was supposed to be an hour-long lesson sometimes stretched to two hours. Gina says the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants “are the two most important books that I’ve grown up without. To be able to learn about them in depth was wonderful. To get my mom’s insight along with my study was an experience I would never want to give up.”
Gina lives in a stake that covers a lot of territory. Her Church friends live about two hours away. Besides the time involved, the cost of gas makes it expensive to drive to see her friends. But it’s worth it to Gina because her friends are strong members of the Church and such good influences on her.
Gina was the only active teenager in her branch; she was the only student in seminary; and her Church friends live far away. Why does she go to all the effort? “I know what I know, and I know it’s the truth,” she says. “To be with people who have a strong testimony of the same things I do is worth driving two hours to have that spiritual backing up.
“There is wear and tear during the week, but you just have to stay strong. When that weekend comes, you’re ready for some Latter-day Saint fun and goodness surrounding you,” Gina says, laughing. “It’s definitely worth it.”

Suddenly there are a dozen girls DarLynn Hawkins hardly knows at her bedroom door. They are all Latter-day Saints, they are all about her own age, and they are giving her big smiles and plates of cookies.
“Why don’t you come to our church next Sunday?” one of them asks, and they all nod and smile some more.
DarLynn smiles back and wonders when these girls will leave.
But they don’t leave. They talk and laugh, and eventually DarLynn begins to feel their enthusiasm. And she begins to wonder if this is what it’s like to be a Latter-day Saint. Is it always fun? Her father was LDS once. She had heard things about the Church, but …
That was about a year and a half ago. Now DarLynn Hawkins, 14, is a member of the Church. She and two of her best friends, Amy Van Camp and Erica Egli, both 14, are sitting on the couch in Amy’s house in Gurnee, Illinois, remembering the events that led to DarLynn’s baptism.
“We had just moved here,” says DarLynn, “and I didn’t really know anyone. All of a sudden here were all these girls asking me to come to their church. I knew who Amy and Erica were, because we’re in the school band together …”
“But we didn’t really like each other,” Erica adds with a grin. All three girls laugh.
“No, we weren’t best friends or anything,” says DarLynn. “And I did think I was being rushed into the Church at first.”
Amy admits that maybe they were pushy. But, as she points out, there are no instructions to follow when you want to talk to a friend about the Church. And every now and then, you make a mistake. “We’d heard her father had been a member of the Church at one time. Erica and I just got the feeling DarLynn might need the Church in her life. The standards of the Church are so high, and they can help you through the tough times.”
When Erica and Amy sensed that DarLynn was uneasy, they slowed things down. They became closer friends with her during a school band trip, gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon (she read parts of it during the summer), and invited her to Church activities (which made her more comfortable with the other members). Eventually, Amy and Erica gained the courage to ask DarLynn if she would like to have missionaries visit her home.
Erica says it wasn’t easy getting up the nerve to ask DarLynn such an important question. “You have to conquer the fear. We were afraid that if she didn’t accept, it would hurt us because the Church means so much to us. I was afraid she would laugh at the lessons or think they were boring.”
But DarLynn said yes. “And everything the missionaries said was so interesting,” she says. “They really got through to me and made it fun. There was a time in every discussion when I’d almost cry. Then during one discussion the missionaries asked me to read, ponder, and pray. I did that night, and the Spirit was there. It was so cool. I started to cry, and I knew the Church was true.”
DarLynn’s parents had watched her carefully study the teachings of the Church. When she asked for their permission to be baptized, they were happy to give it.
While there are no rules to follow when talking to a friend about the Church, there is one common mistake some people make—going to places or doing things you know are wrong with your friend, with the idea that you will take that friend to a Church activity next time.
That’s not too bright, says DarLynn. “When I was younger, I wanted to try everything—smoking, drinking, everything. Then I got to know Amy and Erica. They were strong in the Church, and I thought that was really cool. It made me want what they had. We wouldn’t be as close now if they had followed me and had done the things I wanted to do back then.”
And if Erica and Amy had not been examples to DarLynn, they would have missed a great ending. Erica says, “I’ll never forget …” and Amy joins in, “DarLynn’s baptism!”
“It was the best feeling as we watched DarLynn being baptized, because we had helped her find the truth,” Erica continues. “You could see how happy she was. After she changed into dry clothes, she came out and said, ‘I’m perfect, and you’re not!’”
“I was kidding,” says DarLynn.
They all laugh again—a trio in perfect harmony.

Daniel stared out the window. He saw his friends heading to the park with their basketballs. He wanted to go too.
““I can’t take you today, Daniel,” Mom said. “Your sister has a bad cold. And you’re not quite old enough to go alone. I’m sorry.”
Daniel frowned at his sister, Elise. She was sitting in her wheelchair with her toys on her lap. She was five, but she couldn’t walk or talk yet. Elise coughed hard. She got sick a lot, and she couldn’t go outside if it was too hot or too cold. And she had to eat through a tube in her stomach.
Daniel loved his sister, but sometimes he felt angry too. It was hard to always do what was best for Elise. He just wanted to play with the other kids. His stomach knotted in frustration.
“It’s not fair!” he said to Mom. “Everything is always about Elise!” He ran down the hall to his room.
Two days later Elise’s cough got much worse, and she had to go to the hospital. Daniel’s grandparents came to stay with him. Mom and Dad spent most of their time at the hospital with Elise for the rest of the week.
Daniel’s grandparents could take him to play with the other kids. But now Daniel was worried about Elise. He was sorry for what he had said to his mom that day. He didn’t like how sometimes he couldn’t go play because of Elise. But Daniel loved how she smiled when he talked to her, and being with her made him feel happy.
Daniel looked out the window, hoping to see Mom and Dad bringing Elise home.
Suddenly Daniel saw Mom’s car turn into the driveway. He ran to meet her.
“Mom, I’m sorry for what I said about Elise that day I got mad,” he said, hugging her tight.
“It’s OK,” Mom said as she hugged him back. “I know you love her. It doesn’t seem fair that we can’t always do the things you want to do. It’s hard sometimes for everybody. But I know we are blessed to have Elise in our family.”
Daniel said, “I miss her.”
“Me too,” said Mom. “The doctor said she can probably come home tomorrow.”
Two weeks later Daniel and Elise were both in Primary.
“Everyone find a partner and form a circle!” the Primary president said.
Daniel hurried forward and grabbed his sister’s wheelchair.
“Elise is my partner,” he told her teacher. He wheeled her up front to join the circle of children.
He looked over at Elise. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Daniel was glad Elise could be home again. He wanted to be a special brother to her.

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.
“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”
After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.
“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”
The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”
“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.
“I know there is no God.”
He hesitated before he spoke. “Can I share something?”
“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.
“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.
I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.
“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”
“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”
“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”
“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.
“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”
Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”
Todd looked at me.
“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”
“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.
I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.
Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.
“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”
“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”
“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”
“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”
“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Final!” he screamed.
Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.
A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.
“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”
Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.
“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”
“You should obey your father.”
“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”
“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”
“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”
“Is he mean then?”
“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”
Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”
I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”
Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.
We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.
The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.
The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

3 Second, the prophet. Our prophet continues to testify of Jesus Christ. When President Hinckley was here in Atlanta, I listened to his words and felt the Spirit strongly. Afterward, I got to give him a picture and shake his hand. He said thank you to me and continued to shake other people’s hands. When I looked into his eyes, I knew that he was a prophet of God. The day I met him will be one I will remember forever and will share with my children.
In the April 2000 general conference, President Hinckley gave a whole talk on his testimony of Jesus Christ. He said:
“He is my Savior and my Redeemer. Through giving His life in pain and unspeakable suffering, He has reached down to lift me and each of us and all the sons and daughters of God from the abyss of eternal darkness following death. He has provided something better—a sphere of light and understanding, growth and beauty where we may go forward on the road that leads to eternal life. My gratitude knows no bounds. My thanks to my Lord has no conclusion.
“He is my God and my King. From everlasting to everlasting, He will reign and rule as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. To His dominion there will be no end. To His glory there will be no night.
“None other can take His place. None other ever will.”*
When President Hinckley bears testimony of Jesus, I believe in Jesus, because I know he speaks the truth.

Recently, in our priesthood quorum meeting we were discussing prayer and its role in our lives. We spoke of various places and attitudes of prayer. And eventually, the discussion got around to our own personal experiences with prayer.
Though the Lord had answered my prayers hundreds of times, and though my testimony of prayer has always been extremely strong, my thoughts turned instantly to an experience I had had at basic military training camp in San Antonio, Texas, in 1968.
My air force training group was assigned to Barracks No. 1019. It was a typical two-story military building with double doors at each end, windows on both sides. It stood among a hundred other buildings just like it, all painted white.
My assigned bunk was on the upper floor toward the back. When you got to the top of the stairs, you faced the training instructor’s office on the right, the latrine on the left, and a dark wood floor straight ahead.
The foot of my bunk stood alongside thirty other beds just like it. My footlocker was at the head of my bed. I slept on the bottom bunk.
Sleeping on the bunk above me was William E. “Willy” Wilson, short, strong, black, raised in America’s south, deeply religious, a great friend.
From the first day in the camp I felt the need to pray more than usual. But I wondered if I would be able to kneel to pray in the barrack room.
The first night I waited patiently for the lights to go out. At 9:00 P.M. they shut off automatically, controlled by a timer in the training instructor’s office. They came back on at 4:45 each morning.
At about 9:20 P.M., I quickly and quietly got out of my bed and fell to my knees in prayer. I asked God to help me find a way to have my prayers without any interruptions.
Though we were all supposed to be in bed, many of the men continued polishing their army boots by flashlight or writing letters by the light of a cigarette lighter. Many just talked.
After praying, I would gently climb back into bed, careful not to disturb Willy.
I did that each night for about a week.
On the first Sabbath morning, we were allowed to sleep until 6:00 A.M. At a few minutes past 6:00, as I sleepily sat on the side of my bed, still trying to wake up, our training instructor, Sergeant Bradbury, came into the room.
He sternly called out, “Does anyone want to go to church today?”
“Yes, sir,” I called out. Total silence came over the barracks, upstairs and down.
“Come into my office, Fish,” he quietly ordered.
That first week, we had all learned never to volunteer for anything. Now I had.
“You made a mistake,” Willy whispered as I walked past him.
In the sergeant’s office I reported, “Airman Fish reporting as ordered.”
“Relax,” he said. “Sit down.” I did as I was told.
“What religion are you?” he asked.
“Latter-day Saint, sir,” I replied. His face had a puzzled look.
“Mormon, sir,” I explained.
“Oh,” he half smiled. “I have a good friend who is a Mormon,” he said half apologetically, as if to seek my permission to say that. I nodded in agreement.
“Do you know where your church meets?” was his next question.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a camp directory and showed me where to go. He also gave me the name of the camp chaplain, whom I called from the sergeant’s office. He was most helpful. “Priesthood meeting starts at 9:00,” he told me.
After getting all of the necessary directions, I gently hung up the telephone and Sergeant Bradbury said, “You are free to go. Be back by 6:00!”
“Yes, sir!”
When I was halfway back to my bunk Sergeant Bradbury spoke again, where all could hear. “Except for Fish, you are all confined to barracks, except going for meals.”
When I returned from church that day, I was greeted by the other men with sarcastic remarks.
“Hi, chaplain,” one remarked.
“How was God today?” another asked.
I just tried smiling and kept walking toward my bunk. I could see Willy lying on the top bunk reading.
“Like I said,” he greeted me, “you made a mistake.”
That was the first time in my life I had ever been told that going to church was a mistake.
I changed my clothes and marched to supper with the group—though only Willy would sit with me.
We spent the rest of our Sunday evening reading, writing letters, and doing other things.
Following my regular procedure of the past week, at around 9:15 I climbed quietly once more from my bed and in the darkness slipped to my knees. As usual, the regular barrack room noise continued.
Barely had I begun praying when a very familiar voice shouted clearly, “Quiet! The chaplain’s praying.”
It was Willy.
The noise on the upper floor of Building 1019 instantly stopped. Many of us would soon be assigned to the fighting in Indochina. I came to realize that we all felt a need for the comfort that comes from prayer.
By general, respectful agreement, I spent the next six weeks, promptly at 9:15 P.M. each night, standing at the foot of my bed and offering a two or three minute prayer in behalf of all of the sixty men on that top floor in Building 1019. And during those few short minutes of prayer, it seemed as though we were assembled in a sanctuary, far removed from military affairs and procedures.
At the end of each prayer there were always some quiet “amens” and many louder “hallelujahs.”
But it didn’t matter. As I stood there those forty nights, being the “voice” for many, we all prayed to the same God. And he had answered my prayers.

It all started as an effort by the youth of the Grand Junction Colorado Stake to earn money to send to the Church refugee fund. Richard Lindsay, a talented singer, helped the youth organize a choir to produce and record a tape. The effort was a success, but the group didn’t stop there. The choir has continued to perform together and has increased in size to 18 performers.
The choir performs at stake functions and has expanded to include entertaining at community group gatherings. The choir is finding that its efforts are becoming an effective missionary tool.