Gospel Story Finder

Early in my service as a member of the Council of the Twelve, I was attending the conference of the Monument Park West Stake in Salt Lake City. My companion for the conference was a member of the General Church Welfare Committee, Paul C. Child. President Child was a student of the scriptures. He had been my stake president during my Aaronic Priesthood years. Now we were together as conference visitors.
When it was his opportunity to participate, President Child took the Doctrine and Covenants and left the pulpit to stand among the priesthood to whom he was directing his message. He turned to section 18 and began to read:
“Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God. …
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father” (vs. 10, 15).
President Child then raised his eyes from the scriptures and asked the question of the priesthood brethren: “What is the worth of a human soul?” He avoided calling on a bishop, stake president, or high councilor for a response. Instead, he selected the president of an elders quorum—a brother who had been a bit drowsy and had missed the significance of the question.
The startled man responded: “Brother Child, could you please repeat the question?” The question was repeated: “What is the worth of a human soul?”
I knew President Child’s style. I prayed fervently for that quorum president. He remained silent for what seemed like an eternity and then declared: “Brother Child, the worth of a human soul is its capacity to become as God.”
All present pondered that reply. Brother Child returned to the stand, leaned over to me, and said: “A profound reply; a profound reply!” He proceeded with his message, but I continued to reflect on that inspired response.

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers cut your hair, too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were sitting on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, moved about below them, bleating nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she called back, “Coming!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. He showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, who responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck stopped and refused to move. Though she pulled hard, her twenty-seven kilograms were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Timi Buck and grumbled, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, bleating worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was caught between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s rope-burned hands, he dampened his handkerchief in some clean water and gently patted them while she told her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.”
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

I was asked to give a talk in sacrament meeting about the importance of the standard works in my life. I was happy to accept the assignment, even though I’m a bit shy and I get nervous in front of people. I was grateful to speak on this topic because I have a strong testimony of the scriptures.
For a long time I have studied the scriptures every day, just as our prophets have asked us to do. When I do this, I feel great joy. I know that what I read in the standard works is the word of God.
I also keep a personal journal. The missionaries taught me to do this, and I consider it to be a valuable work as well. Each day I record my experiences and any progress I have made. In accepting the assignment to speak, I felt comfortable knowing I might find something in my journal to use in my talk.
Because I was so nervous, I worked hard all week, preparing the talk and praying for guidance. I wanted my words to touch the hearts of my brothers and sisters.
Finally Sunday arrived. I shook a little as I went to the pulpit. As I spoke, I noticed the members were listening intently. I had never felt so calm or spoken with such ease. A beautiful spirit filled me, almost like a burning (see D&C 9:8). Giving my talk was a wonderful experience. I knew Heavenly Father had blessed me with His Spirit.
As I thought about the experience afterward, I realized I may have been blessed with the Spirit because I had prepared my talk so diligently and had sought the Lord’s guidance. Because I was prepared, there was no need to fear (see D&C 38:30).
I also realized that if we prepare confidently for something that seems to be as small as a talk, we can also prepare for greater things, secure in the knowledge that the Lord will sustain us.

We have developed a game that we play in our home called “Touched You Last.” Most nights, as we tuck the children in bed, we play this fun game. One night, after we all had been in bed for a few minutes and the lights were out, my daughter got out of her bed and in the dark crawled quietly on her hands and knees from her room down the hall into our room. She crawled to my side of the bed, reached up and said, “Touched you last.” I want you to know that my heart is okay.

I remember when I was a 17-year-old man, my father, with justification, began to criticize me for something I had done wrong. I became upset and turned to dad and said something like, “Hey, let up, dad. This is the first time I have ever been a teenager.”

My father, in a beautifully sensitive way, said, “Hugh, this is the first time I have ever been a parent.”

My father, perhaps unknowingly, had taught me a great lesson. As a teenager, I had responsibilities to my parents and was to be patient with them as I expected them to be patient and understanding with me.

One of the stake presidents in Phoenix, Arizona, made the following report that really touched me:

I was humbled to learn that last quarter 100 percent of our single adults and single parents were visited. It is humbling, while also sad, to realize that in many homes the home teacher is considered the father by the children who reside there.

This past month I met two families in the stake who shared the same home teacher. They had just learned that their home teacher was moving because of a job transfer.

During the last sacrament meeting the home teacher attended prior to his move, several children from the homes he taught sang “Lord, I Would Follow Thee”(Hymns, 1985, no. 220). At the halfway mark in the third verse, the children began to cry and could not continue singing. As a quiet began to rush over the congregation, the words of the song began to be heard from the back of the chapel. It was the remainder of the family members singing from their hearts. As they sang, they stood—a single mother with her other children and another sister and her nonmember husband. It was one of the most moving things I have ever witnessed. As the music stopped, it was as if everyone could still hear a heavenly choir.

I later learned that this wonderful home teacher had, for years, visited each of his families once a week. Though he had never held a ward position viewed by others as significant, I had a witness that his work in his call as a home teacher had dwarfed any accomplishment of any leader in his ward or our stake. I came away from that meeting with a better understanding of the Lord’s feelings regarding the call of a home teacher than from any talk I have ever heard.

From Yellowstone Park, through Jackson Hole, Wyoming, then on to Kaysville, Utah, by bicycle sounds like quite an undertaking for the 12 Varsity Scouts of the Kaysville Eighth Ward, Kaysville Utah East Stake. And it was. After weeks of discussion between parents, Scouts, and leaders, the five-day, 380-mile trip was officially planned, and the Scouts were ready to get in shape for the trip.
Training for the group was each Tuesday. The first trip to help them get in shape was from Kaysville to Antelope Island and back, a 44-mile trip which took 3 1/2 hours. After recovering from sore muscles, the group made several other test runs, helping build up stamina.
In preparation for the adventure, each Scout made sure his bike was in good condition. Then one summer morning, food and gear were loaded into a pickup truck, the bikes loaded into a trailer, and the group set out for the west gate of Yellowstone, where the bicycle journey was to start.
Bicycling through the mountain passes, sometimes climbing 1,000 feet per hour or fighting strong winds, challenged the Scouts. One day they rode 90 miles. Another day they woke to find a layer of ice on their sleeping bags. They crossed the continental divide four times and passed through countless little towns along the way. Four of the Scouts rode the entire 380 miles; the others each rode at least 250.
Was the trip worth the tired muscles and the long hours of preparation?
The answer is an enthusiastic yes!
“We were really blessed on the trip,” said one of the participants. “The weather was perfect, we didn’t have any bike problems except two flat tires, no accidents or injuries, and we all got along well and grew closer.”
They’re planning their next trip already.

During the Great Depression, Harold B. Lee, serving then as a stake president, was asked by the Brethren to find an answer to the oppressive poverty, sorrow, and hunger that were so widespread across the world at that time. He struggled to find a solution and took the matter to the Lord and asked, “What kind of an organization will we have … to do this?”

And “it was as though the Lord had said [to him]: ‘Look, son. You don’t need any other organization. I have given you the greatest organization there is on the face of the earth. Nothing is greater than the priesthood organization. All in the world you need to do is to put the priesthood to work. That’s all.’”12

When I was a child, I played the violin. I wanted it to sound pretty. I wanted to play for my parents and have them say, “Oh, Joy, that’s beautiful!” But it didn’t sound beautiful. It squeaked!
Sometimes when I didn’t practice, my teacher would say, “Joy, did you practice this week?” It made me want to practice so I could play better the next week.
Looking back, playing the violin was a good experience because it was hard. Even though I didn’t always like practicing, I learned so much from setting a goal to practice a little bit every day.

The Molalla High School seminary class, taught by Dianne Chelson, earned enough points to be named the number one class in a poll conducted in the Portland Oregon Region. The status was achieved by earning points for attendance, memorization, reading, and locating scriptures. The ten students in the class were in first place when the poll began and held that position for five months.
The Molalla class also won their stake scripture chase competition. They went the extra mile and memorized all 40 of the year’s scriptures.

It was a Christmas when my three older sisters were 12, 10, and 7 just after my father, a young engineer, had accepted a transfer from Schenectady, New York, to Los Angeles, California. On Christmas Eve, my mother made preparations for the traditional Christmas dinner the next afternoon. My sisters took turns trying to keep me and my three-year-old brother from playing baseball with the shining Christmas tree ornaments. Mother found time to tend our new baby sister.
Amid the bustle of the Christmas Eve excitement, my father was preoccupied. His thoughts kept returning to the used bicycle hidden carefully in the garage rafters. Next to it lay the boxes holding two brand-new, shining black, matching three-speed bikes which he had purchased for my two older sisters. The budget strains of Christmas had prevented Dad from buying a third black three-speed for Leanne. Instead, he set about restoring the old single-speed, fat-tired bike the older two no longer rode. Scouring pads and elbow grease made the rusty spokes shine. The inner tubes were patched, and a new coat of paint erased the battle scars of collisions and neglect. A replacement set of handgrips made the handlebars look almost new.
My father realized Leanne would probably recognize the old war horse, but he was sure she could be happy just having her own bike. And in a year or two, when she outgrew this one, he would be able to buy her a brand-new one. Leanne had already received a big share of hand-me-downs from her older sisters. Many of her clothes, toys, and books had been previously used.
This Christmas Eve, as my mother tucked all of us in bed, Dad commenced his marathon toy and bicycle assembly projects. When he finished the new, black bicycles, he placed them side by side near the Christmas tree. He then carefully rolled out and placed the rejuvenated old bike next to the new ones. The stark contrast of the old half-sized, blue, thick-tubed bike against the sleek, black beauties made the revamped two-wheeler suddenly look small and old-fashioned. Dad reconsidered. Had he made a mistake in trying to redo the old bike for Leanne? Would she feel slighted? Leanne was too young to understand the economics of family finances, but she would be quick to spot this injustice perpetrated by Santa Claus: new bikes for her sisters, the old war horse for her.
A gradual panic swept over Dad as he realized he’d slipped up. Better run to the store and buy a matching bike, quick! But on Christmas Eve? It was already 11:30 P.M., and the stores would probably be closed. A few hurried telephone calls confirmed the worst. Everything was closed.
My grandmother, who was visiting for the holidays, tried to comfort Dad. “Don’t worry, Ray. She’ll love the bike. You’ve made it look just like new.”
Dad was not comforted. He kept imagining the disappointed look on Leanne’s face as she recognized the old hand-me-down. Though it was very late when he finished the last stocking and exhausted as he was from his assembly projects, Dad did not sleep well that night.
Early Christmas morning, we were poised in our annual positions in the hall—all in a row, youngest to the oldest. It was still dark outside, but we were already hopping with that special excitement of children on Christmas morning. Dad was in the living room making the movie camera and lights ready to record our grand entrance. Finally he yelled, “Okay, come on in,” and we blazed through the doorway like a shot. In a matter of minutes, the beautiful array of packages and ornaments was transformed into a mountain of strewn boxes, wrappings, and ribbons. My older sisters spotted their black beauties, gave them the once over with due praise and admiration, and moved on to the Christmas tree to locate more presents. Amid the chaos and clutter, Leanne stood firmly next to the old blue bike. She was touching every part and talking aloud, “Look, it has new grips and new paint! A brand-new seat! Just look at those pedals, and it’s my very own, my very own bike.”
Leanne didn’t seem to notice there were other presents for her under the tree. She stayed near the bike and repeated the same speech several times, though no one was listening, no one, that is, except my father. He stood silently on the other side of the room, oblivious to the rest of the children, the movie camera held low at his side, listening to Leanne. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he witnessed this perfect acceptance of his imperfect gift.
It has been a long time since the black beauties were worn out and discarded. Even the old war horse was sent to the glue factory years ago. But the image of my father’s tear-streaked face on Christmas Day reminds me still of the warmth of a Christmas gift well given and well received.

Thanking God that there is rain reminds me of a friend who personifies ThanksLiving. Here’s one last story.

This is my friend Grif the Great.

Grif is amazing. He was a few months old when he was diagnosed with a disease that affects how his blood carries oxygen. When he was four years old, he suffered a massive five-day long stroke that affected the entire left side of his body. He lost his hearing, sight, speech, and the control of his limbs.

Grif the Great is a fighter. He worked hard the next two years to relearn how to use his body. He had some long-term effects, and he couldn’t communicate verbally very much. But he didn’t need words. Grif the Great has an innate ability to tell who is having a bad day. Seeing someone who was sad, he’d cradle their face in his hands, curl up in their lap, or put his arm around them. His smile is 1000 watts of love.

He endured many more physical trials over the next few years, including regular blood transfusions, bouts of epilepsy, and frequent hospital visits. The doctors would constantly tell the family he only had six more months to live, and they’d repeat that every six months. Through it all, Grif the Great spread love and happiness wherever he went.

This picture—one of my favorite pictures ever, which I often look at when I’m having a metaphorical rainy day—says it all. Instead of complaining about the rain, Grif the Great embraces it. He is thankful for the smell and taste of raindrops. Who cares about the rain ruining a school assembly? Rain is a good thing. Be thankful for rain. That’s Grif in a nutshell.

In March last year, a few months after his baptism, on a beautiful Spring day full of his usual happiness and love, Grif the Great suddenly fell unconscious, and never woke up again. Grif the Great’s 1000-watt smile is now lighting up heaven.

I want to live in Thanksgiving like Grif the Great.

In 1950—a few days before Christmas, when I was six years old and living in Palma de Mallorca, Spain—I stood on our living room balcony and watched a ship leave the harbor. On board were my father and my brother. With me on the balcony were my mother and my sister. My father, a chemist of perfumes, was leaving to pursue opportunities in Uruguay, South America. He never returned to his children or his wife. Several years later, he and my mother were divorced.
In the years that followed, I rarely heard from him. In the meantime, my mother took us to her native country, France, where, in 1964, I was baptized a member of the Church. One year later I left France for Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. In time, I served a mission, pursued graduate studies, and married.
Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

Like so many young people do, when I was young I occasionally dreamed of being rich and famous. I am now grateful that that dream was not realized. My understanding of what success really is has changed over the years of my life. It began to change on my first mission to Brazil over 45 years ago.
One day, my companion and I went out to visit a poor sister who was widowed. In those days there were no stakes or wards in Brazil, only mission districts and branches. Sometimes missionaries looked after the members.
Finally, we arrived at a humble home in a very isolated area. This home had a dirt floor and open windows without any glass. The wind and the flies could come right through. Never before in my life had I been in a home where people live with open windows and a dirt floor. Despite this, the house was clean and neat, curtains were hung, and the boards on the inside of the house were whitewashed. Despite being primitive, the home had a cozy feeling about it. We asked after this poor widow’s health and well-being. She seemed quite happy and contented. We then began to have something of a gospel lesson. She participated freely. We thought that we were the teachers, but it soon became apparent that she knew more than we did. Her faith was deep, and her knowledge of the great eternal truths of where we came from, who we are, and where we are going was very profound.
I had my eyes opened. It was astonishing to hear this sister in these humble circumstances explain the great purposes of God in the grand scheme of the earth and its creation. I was reminded about what James said in his great epistle: “Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him?” (James 2:5).
In contrast to this experience, I have seen many who were wealthy who have wasted their talents and energy to a point where their spiritual understanding was dulled. Some were so preoccupied with money and things that they missed the grand purpose of life. I am sure that while poor people did not choose to be poor, often it is within their grasp to know, understand, and enjoy the really important things. So if one does not have all the things of this world one would wish, one can still have and enjoy the rich, satisfying gifts of life and the blessings of God, such as faith, family, and friends.
This poor widow on the outskirts of São Paulo made the most of her straitened circumstances—circumstances that could not easily be changed. She realized that she should not make her life miserable by wishing it were otherwise. We ought always to try to improve on the things that can be improved, but there are some circumstances that cannot be changed. This impoverished woman enjoyed her independence, and she owed no one any money. She was industrious and thrifty. She crocheted beautiful cloths which were sold in the city to satisfy her simple wants, but she was not poor in spirit. She was rich in the things that really matter.
From that experience many years ago, I learned much. I am persuaded that this humble widow who lived in a house with a dirt floor and no panes in the window is an heir to the exaltation of God.

An attitude of faith can convert a doubter to a doer. When Joseph Smith approached the doubting John E. Page with a call to fill a mission to Canada, Brother Page replied, “I cannot go on a mission to Canada, Brother Joseph. I haven’t even a coat to wear.”
The Prophet removed his own coat, handed it to him, and said, “Here, wear this and the Lord will bless you.”
John E. Page had faith in the Prophet’s promise. He labored two years in Canada, walked 5,000 miles, and baptized 600 souls.

My wife and I observed with sadness and amazement as some of our friends went through the process of divorce. The first thing we felt was the fear that this would happen to us if we found ourselves facing difficult challenges in our marriage. When a serious crisis did arise in our marriage, we decided to give ourselves one last chance—but to do it in the right way. We had already been trying for some time to solve our problems by taking one another’s thoughts and feelings into consideration. Our relationship would improve temporarily, but after a time our problems always returned.
Not until we realized that the Lord needed to play a prominent role in our marriage did our marriage begin to change. We realized that we were never going to be able to work through, much less solve, our conflicts by ourselves. Putting aside our pride, we did something we hadn’t done before. We forgot our own opinions and asked the Lord what He wanted of us. Only when we included Him did our marriage start to improve—gradually and in His way and in His own due time.
It has now been several years since we knelt at the altar of the Santiago Chile Temple, and we have faced many challenges and much adversity. Looking back, we can say that everything we have gone through has been for our good. The adversity has taught us to be humble and has made us stronger. We are still learning how to put our lives in order—both of us learning to work together as equal partners in love and understanding—and the effort has been worth it.
There is no magic recipe for success in marriage. The ingredients are found, as they always have been, in the gospel of Jesus Christ. So, as a family, we have written a declaration that we use alongside the proclamation on the family issued by the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.1 Our declaration, titled “Preparing to Be an Eternal Family,” begins with these words: “We, the Castro Martínez family, testify that marriage is ordained of God and that family relationships can be eternal through the Atonement of Jesus Christ if we are obedient to the laws and ordinances of the gospel.”
What follows are 17 principles that in our judgment encompass the basic gospel values that will give us the greatest chance for success in our marriage and in our family. Our list is by no means revolutionary; it includes things such as personal and family prayer, scripture study, weekly family home evenings, attendance at Sunday meetings, regular temple attendance, treating one another with love and respect, and giving service. We also realize that principles by themselves have no effect whatsoever—we have to put them into practice.
Putting aside our pride and incorporating the Lord and His will into our marriage have put us on the path to becoming an eternal family.

On September 11, 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City were hit by terrorist-controlled airliners that caused both towers to collapse. Thousands of people were killed. Out of this tragedy have come hundreds of stories of courageous, unselfish acts. One very poignant and heroic account is the Washington Post’s story of retired army colonel Cyril “Rick” Rescorla, who was working as vice president for corporate security of Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.

Rick was a very experienced ex-military combat leader. He was in his office when “the first plane struck the north tower at 8:48 a.m. … He took a call from the 71st floor reporting the fireball in One World Trade Center, and he immediately ordered an evacuation of all 2,700 employees in Building Two,” as well as 1,000 more in Building Five. Using his bullhorn, he moved up the floors, working through a bottleneck on the 44th and going as high as the 72nd, helping to evacuate the people from each floor. One friend who saw Rick reassuring people in the 10th-floor stairwell told him, “Rick, you’ve got to get out, too.”

“As soon as I make sure everyone else is out,” he replied.

“He was not rattled at all. He was putting the lives of his colleagues ahead of his own.” He called headquarters to say he was going back up to search for stragglers.

His wife had watched the United Airlines jet go through his tower. “After a while, her phone rang. It was Rick.

“‘I don’t want you to cry,’ he said. ‘I have to evacuate my people now.’

“She kept sobbing.

“‘If something happens to me, I want you to know that you made my life.’

“The phone went dead.” Rick did not make it out.

“Morgan Stanley lost only six of its 2,700 employees in the south tower on Sept. 11, an isolated miracle amid the carnage. And company officials say Rescorla deserves most of the credit. He drew up the evacuation plan. He hustled his colleagues to safety. And then he apparently went back into the inferno to search for stragglers. He was the last man out of the south tower after the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, and no one seems to doubt that he would’ve been again last month if the skyscraper hadn’t collapsed on him first.”

Amid the great evil and carnage of September 11, 2001, Rick was not looking for what might be in it for him; instead he was unselfishly thinking about others and the danger they were in. Rick Rescorla was the “right man in the right place at the right time.” Rick, “a 62-year-old mountain of a man cooly [sacrificed] his life for others.” As the Savior Himself said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

When they were engaged, Sonia Lopreiato Piros and Gabriel Piros of São Paulo, Brazil, talked about the decisions they would have to make when their children were born. But after one year of marriage and the birth of their first child, “everything that was once so simple in theory turned out to be complicated to practice,” Sister Piros says. “We faced the moment of decision, and fear invaded our hearts. My husband was afraid he would not earn enough to provide for our needs, and I was afraid to end my promising career.”
Brother and Sister Piros began reviewing the Eternal Marriage Student Manual (item no. 35311) and attending institute classes together. They felt certain the right decision was the one they had made before they were married—that Sister Piros would set aside her career for now, even though both knew it would not be easy for Brother Piros to provide for the family’s needs.
“We exercised our faith, and as the scripture said, we proved the word of God,” she says (see 2 Ne. 11:3). The couple began to experience many blessings as a result of their sacrifice, including Brother Piros’s professional growth.
“We still face some challenges and fears, but we are certain that God will be there at our side and that He will answer our prayers,” Sister Piros says.

In 1976 Elder Robert C. Oaks, then a colonel in the United States Air Force, was a member of the Incidents at Sea negotiating team. They were guests at a dinner hosted by the Leningrad Naval District. About 50 senior officers of the Soviet Union and the United States were present as the host led the group in toasts before dinner. They stood for the first toast and raised their glasses, most of which were filled with Russian vodka. Brother Oaks had pink lemonade in his glass, which was immediately noticed by the admiral leading the toast. He stopped and demanded that Brother Oaks fill his glass with vodka, stating that he would not proceed until he had done so. Brother Oaks declined, explaining that he was happy with what he had in his glass.

A significant tension began to build, and even his own team members, most of whom were senior to him, were growing uneasy over the impasse. Brother Oaks’s Soviet escort hissed in his ear, “Fill your glass with vodka!” Brother Oaks uttered the shortest prayer of his life: “God, help me!”

Within seconds, the Soviet interpreter, an army captain with whom he had previously discussed religion, whispered to the host admiral, “It is because of his religion.” The admiral nodded his head, the tension immediately diffused, and the program moved on.

Elder Oaks had decided years before that he would never drink alcohol, and so in the moment of trial he did not have to make this choice again. Elder Oaks was convinced that more harm would have come to him if he had compromised a tenet of his faith than the harm that would have come from drinking the vodka. Incidentally, adhering to his religious principles did not hurt his career. After this incident he went on to become a four-star general.

Are there some specific things that you could use some help with right now? When my neighbor saw my broken fence and fixed it, he knew that I needed help. But other needs aren’t as easily determined without asking. Gently ask or suggest ways in which you might help. For example, I was concerned that the financial provisions for my family were in order, but didn’t quite know how to go about determining whether or not they were. One day my bishop, who is a certified public accountant, came to see me. “If you’d like me to,” he said, “I’d be happy to review your financial affairs with you and your wife.” I was grateful for his tact, and relieved to learn after his review that things were as we wished them to be.