Gospel Story Finder

Another example: In 1830, Frederick G. Williams, a prominent medical doctor, was baptized. He immediately gave of his talents and prosperity to the Church. He became a leader in the Church. He donated property for the Kirtland Temple. In 1837, caught up in difficulties of the times, Frederick G. Williams made serious mistakes. The Lord declared in a revelation that “in consequence of [his] transgressions [his] former standing [in the leadership of the Church had] been taken away from [him].”

The beautiful lesson we learn from Frederick G. Williams is that “whatever his personal weaknesses, he had the strength of character to [renew] his loyalty to the [Lord,] the Prophet and … to the Church, when it would have been so easy to have disintegrated in bitterness.” In the spring of 1840, he presented himself at a general conference, humbly asking forgiveness for his past conduct and expressing his determination to do the will of God in the future. His case was presented by Hyrum Smith, and he was freely forgiven. He died a faithful member of the Church.

I recently met the president of the Recife Brazil Temple, whose name is Frederick G. Williams. He recounted how his great-great-grandfather’s decision of character had blessed the family and hundreds of his posterity.

Illustration by Maren Scott
Sister Sheldon is the greatest Primary president ever! She is energetic and funny. When she stands up to do sharing time, we all say, “It’s Sheldon sharing time” with jazz hands and smiles. She loves it!
Early in 2015 Sister Sheldon found out that she had cancer again, for the fifth time! She explained to all of us what cancer is and what it does. She told us that she might miss church sometimes and she would probably lose her hair. She asked us to fast and pray to help make the cancer go away.
During this time, our Primary did the helping hands challenge, where we cut out paper hands and wrote on them an act of service we did. Sister Ashby, in the Primary presidency, had the idea to make a helping hands quilt for Sister Sheldon. We all wanted her to know that we love her, so the whole Primary traced hands and hearts, and the activity day girls used them to make a quilt. We sewed, ironed, and poured all of our love into it. Some of us even tied strings on our fingers to remember Sister Sheldon.
We gave the quilt to Sister Sheldon. She took it to her chemotherapy sessions and felt our love.
The best part was when Sister Sheldon bore her testimony to the entire Primary. She told us how special we were to her and that she loved us. She knew we were a big part of why she made it through chemo again. Even though I was scared that she might not make it, I just knew she would. Today Sister Sheldon is cancer free!

A short time after our visit, Luan’s condition worsened, and his doctors found a large tumor at the base of his spinal cord. It could not be removed surgically, so Luan went to the hospital for another round of chemotherapy.
One night when President Soares and I visited Luan in the hospital, we found him in a lot of pain. He asked us several questions, including “What is death?” and “What is dying like?”
I explained that dying is part of eternity and that death is not a closing door but a door that opens for us as we go back to the presence of God. Luan understood and smiled. He said that now he was prepared. Then he asked us to give him a blessing, and we did so.
In the bed next to Luan was a 14-year-old boy named Pedro. Now Pedro asked us to bless him too. I asked if he had faith in Jesus Christ, and he said he did. We explained what the priesthood is and that we would be blessing him in the name of Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and smiled as we blessed him. Next an 18-year-old young woman asked us to give her a blessing too.
I found out that Luan and his mother had comforted Pedro and many of the other young cancer patients and their parents. As I left the hospital that night, I was edified to see that Luan and his mother, though suffering themselves, found the strength to visit others and minister to their needs.

Before Wade Holmstead passed away I had the opportunity of being his Primary president. All his life he had serious health problems, but he also had an insight and understanding that few eleven-year-olds have.
When I interviewed Wade for Primary graduation, he was well prepared and anxious to become a deacon and a Scout. Then we spoke of missionary work and his future plans. Some of his neighbors were inactive and the children did not attend Primary. I asked Wade if he would be a missionary and try to get these children to attend Primary. He agreed.
The next week, Primary was about to begin when Wade and these children entered the chapel. I was stunned! What a miracle. Later I asked him, “How did you ever get the children to come to Primary?”
Wade looked at me with wonder and answered quietly, “It wasn’t hard at all, Sister Haynie. I just reminded them. All they needed was to be reminded.”

One of the talks that has had an everlasting impression on me is one given in a Saturday evening session of a stake conference years ago. The talk was given by a young mother. Here’s what she said: “I have been doing the genealogy of my great-grandfather. He and his large family of sons and daughters were members of the Church.
“My great-grandfather,” she said, “left church one Sunday with his family, and they never returned—no indication why.”
She then said, “In my research, I have found that my great-grandfather has over 1,000 descendants.”
And then she said, and this is the part I have not been able to forget, “Of those 1,000 descendants, I am the only one active in the Church today.”
As she said these words, I found myself thinking, “Is it only 1,000, or could it be more?”
The answer is apparent. The spiritual influence that family might have had on their neighbors and friends did not happen. None of his sons nor any of his daughters served as missionaries, and those they would have touched with their testimonies were not baptized, and those who were not baptized did not go on missions. Yes, there are probably many thousands who are not in the Church today, and not in this very meeting, because of that great-grandfather’s decision.
As I heard her talk I found myself thinking, “What a tragedy! Perhaps if I had been there at that time, I could have said something to the father, to the family, to the priesthood leaders that might have helped to prevent such a calamity to their family and to so many in the future generations that would follow.”

My grandfather had been living in Farmington, Utah, for a few years before he and his family were asked to go out into south-central Idaho and help settle a new community to be named Oakley. My father, Hector, was a teenager when they moved. My mother, Clara, was a teenager living in Tooele, Utah, when her father was asked to move to Oakley and build the first flour mill there. And so Hector and Clara fell in love out in that little Idaho town.
When it was time to be married in 1890, they didn’t ask where they would be married and what they would do. They knew what to do. I remind those of you who may not have your geography straight that in that part of Idaho it is about 180 miles to the Logan Temple. But my parents went to the Logan Temple from that little town to be married on May 15, 1890. I’ve often wondered how they made the trip. Imagine one of the old double-seat surrey buggies without any sides on it, pulled by a team of horses. In spite of spring rains, they set out to go 180 miles in the buggy.
I don’t know how many were in the company, but if you would imagine a modern automobile with its steel top, glass sides, heaters, radio, comfortable seats by the side of that buggy, you would see a great difference. Imagine those young people with some of their party organizing to travel 180 miles. It would take a week. They set out to make the seven-day trip to the temple in that buggy. They were without sleeping bags or winter clothing as we know it today, but they had clothing that was appropriate for that time—blankets and quilts—and some flour sacks filled with food.
So when we sing about the strength of the hills, we should thank the Lord for the strength of where we are and who we are and what we believe in and how we live. Are the young people today wondering if it would be inconvenient for them to go a few miles to the Manti Temple or the St. George Temple or the Atlanta Georgia Temple or even to the Stockholm Sweden Temple or the Johannesburg South Africa Temple or wherever it might be? Picture in your minds what went on only a few years ago, and your travel to a temple will not seem so inconvenient.

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow counsel. It was in a second grade elementary classroom. The student-teacher held the children captive with her storytelling skills. In great detail she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to be a neighbor to Mr. Brown?” Every hand was raised high. Then almost as an afterthought, she inquired if there was anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor.
A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, which brought a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation to his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor, because if he was, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh, I wish I’d said that!”
We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one, just one, had a spirit within, a discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

In 1960 I met a young man at a party who told me that Jesus Christ had visited the Americas after His Resurrection. I found the idea incredible and wanted to know more, so I began searching in libraries and inquiring of the various religious denominations in my hometown of San Miguel, El Salvador.
I searched for almost three years but found nothing. When I mentioned to various religious leaders that I had heard of Christ’s coming to the Americas, they told me I had been deceived. Because my search turned up no information, I eventually came to believe they were right.
One day two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to my home and said they had an important message for my family. I immediately remembered my previous inquiries and asked them, “Do you know if Jesus Christ came to the Americas?”
One of the young men said, “We bear witness of that.”
At that moment I felt a great excitement in my mind and heart, and I asked, “How do you know that?”
He took a book out of his bag and said, “We know Christ came here because of this book, the Book of Mormon.”
What the missionaries taught me during that first discussion troubled me, and I doubted the account of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s vision of the Father and the Son. However, the Book of Mormon intrigued me, and the missionaries kept teaching me the lessons.
One afternoon, the elders asked me, “Have you prayed to find out if what we are teaching you is true?”
I told them I had done so but had not obtained an answer.
“You must pray with real intent,” they said.
I had been reading the Book of Mormon for several nights and had read about and believed in Jesus Christ’s appearance to the Nephites, but I still could not accept Joseph Smith’s vision. My internal struggle was terrible.
One night I knelt alone and opened my heart to God. I told Him that I needed to know if He had really manifested Himself to Joseph Smith. If He had, I promised Him I would be baptized into the Church and serve Him all my life.
When I arose early the next morning, the answer came to me through the Holy Ghost. My mind cleared, and my heart filled with peace. From that moment on, I have had no doubts whatsoever that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet of God, that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ, and that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer.
I know that Christ came to the Americas after His Resurrection. My soul delights in this marvelous knowledge, taught to me with certainty by the power of the Holy Ghost.

I grew up in the little town of Mantua, Utah. My mother, Laurine Nielsen Jeppsen, was a very courageous woman. She had an illness called Bright’s Disease, which was incurable. She knew that she was terminally ill, and she had been advised not to have any more children before I came along. My coming into the world hurried her exit from it, I’m sure, but I’m grateful that she decided to have me, anyway.
Mother and I were the best of friends. On my first day of school, Mother said good-bye and I started to walk to school, which was a half mile away. I remember turning back and seeing Mother standing on the porch, watching me go. I was the youngest, and, knowing that she wouldn’t be around very long, she must have had deep feelings about seeing me leave. I ran back and gave her a hug and a kiss four separate times before I finally went to school.
I remember lying on the bed with Mother in the early evenings, particularly the summer evenings. She loved to go to bed early and listen to the birds sing and watch the sun fading outside the window of our home.
Mother taught me the gospel. One time we had a cloudburst, and the ditch out back overflowed its banks. Our house was on a little rise, but there were at least three feet of water around it. Father was farming at a place called Dry Lake. I remember kneeling with Mother and praying that we would not be flooded and that Father would get home. About four or five hours later, the downpour stopped and Father came home. It had flooded where he was too. Water had been up to his waist, but he’d been preserved. I was very impressed with the power of prayer.
Mother was very great on service. Many times I took fresh cinnamon rolls or other baked goodies that she’d made to the school bus driver as he came by our home. His wife had died. That’s just one example of what Mother did even when she was suffering.
She prepared me for her death, too, lavishing love on me. She used to look at her legs that were so swollen that they had cracked open and make jokes about them. She assured me that she would have no pain where she was going. She said, “I’ll see you baptized. I promise.” That brought a great deal of comfort to me.
My father baptized me on my eighth birthday in the dammed up ditch in back of our home. It was the first of November, and I still remember how cold the water was. Mother went into a coma the day after my baptism and died four days later.
I remember crying when I was told that Mother had died. Everyone was crying. My older sister, Mae, who was about nineteen or twenty and was a registered nurse, said, “Malcolm, I’ll be your mother.” She kept that promise.
My father, Conrad Jeppsen, served as a bishop for twenty-two years. He was also a great teacher, and he taught me many things. He taught me the principle of honesty. For example, I remember jumping up and down with joy when I found a dollar bill on the floor of a store. In those days, a dollar was really something. I would be wealthy! I grabbed it and said, “Look what I found!”
Dad said, “Is it yours?”
I said, “No, it isn’t mine.”
“If it isn’t yours, let’s take it to the clerk. Somebody will come back for it.”
I took the dollar to the clerk and learned a lesson. Since then, whenever I’ve found things, Father’s question has come to my mind: “Is it yours?”
My father was also a great one to serve others. He loved to tinker with clocks. People brought their clocks to him, usually mantel clocks that struck the hour. He’d take the inner works out, clean them up, and put the clocks back together. Then he would just touch the mechanisms with a feather dipped in very, very light oil. He kept the clocks for three or four weeks while he regulated them. Sometimes we had twelve to fifteen of those clocks, and then every midnight sounded like New Year’s Eve!
The example of the selflessness of my mother and father will always remain with me. I hope that you will always be respectful and appreciative of your parents and family. The family unit is eternal.
Listen to good counsel from your parents and leaders. Don’t assume that you know more than they do. Learn from the mistakes of others instead of making the same mistakes yourself.

I think I was most grateful when I left California to attend BYU. First of all, I was glad that I had earned the grades necessary to enter college. And although I told my roommates I wasn’t interested in getting married because I was going to be a famous journalist, I really was. And I didn’t want to marry a slouch either. I wanted a man who had lived a righteous life and kept himself clean. I did find Mr. Right, and it was sublime not to have any serious transgressions to hide or confess before we knelt at the altar of the temple.

Lance Reynolds can understand that feeling. Football had become an important part of his life at an early age, beginning with little league. He played offensive and defensive tackle at Granite High School in Salt Lake City and was chosen to the all-region team his junior year. As a senior, he was selected to all-state and again to all-region.

The year Lance entered Brigham Young University was the first year freshmen were allowed to play varsity ball, and he played with the varsity football team enough to letter. His sophomore year he was on the starting team, and his junior year promised to be a great one—he would have been the only offensive lineman returning. But it was time for Lance to go on his mission, and although he had always planned to go, the final decision was a tough one to make.

“At the time,” he remembers, “leaving on a mission seemed like the end of all hopes for a football career.” It seemed like a choice between football and a mission. He chose the mission.

Five years and a professional contract later, Lance no longer feels that you have to make a choice. “Why not do both?” he asks. “Young students and athletes don’t have to ‘give up’ things to go on a mission—only postpone them for two years.”

And he should know. Having kept himself in shape during his mission by exercising during personal time (before 6:30 A.M.) and watching his weight, Lance was able on his return to slip back into his uniform and the game with ease. Within two weeks he felt at home on the field. The following season he was on the starting lineup at BYU. His senior year he was selected all-WAC (Western Athletic Conference), All-American honorable mention, and was drafted in the ninth round pro draft by the Pittsburgh Steelers. He is now playing with the Philadelphia Eagles.

Do these athletes feel that they are better for having served a mission? A unanimous yes! As Mark McGregor put it, “There are many similarities between the mission field and the field of athletics, especially regarding the mental aspect. A positive mental attitude is imperative in both. I learned a lot about what it takes to gain this positive mental attitude in the mission field, and it has had a beneficial effect on my swimming.”

Lance feels he gained in intensity, concentration, and self-control. And all three felt an increased confidence upon returning to their sport.

Although some missionaries do return and fade away from the sports scene, it is usually due to a shift in interests rather than inability. Ed, Mark, and Lance are convinced that any athlete who serves a mission will be able to regain his previous ability upon diligently applying himself.

And even if that were not the case, Lance wouldn’t have missed his mission for anything. “I would trade all of my athletic experiences for the opportunity of going on a mission,” he insists.

Tara listened as her mother talked excitedly on the phone.
“That’s wonderful, Kevin,” Mom said. Kevin was Tara’s older brother. “We’re so happy for you!” Mom continued. She was crying and laughing at the same time.

Mom hung up the phone and turned to Tara. “Kevin and Chrissy got a call from their social worker. He said that Family Services has a baby girl for them.”

Kevin and his wife, Chrissy, had not been able to have children. LDS Family Services was helping them to adopt a child.

“Will Kevin and Chrissy take the baby to the temple?” Tara asked.

Her mother nodded. “After the adoption is final, Kevin and Chrissy will have her sealed to them, just like you were sealed to us.”

Tara thought of something. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

“That’s right,” her mother said. “Aunt Tara.”

Tara grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

Pursuing a Pathway degree is sometimes a long, patient process. Daddy Kampoy David shares his experience: “I have a young family and a full-time job. I serve as the first counsellor in the Bandalungwa Ward, DRC, and I teach in the EnglishConnect program. My time for study is very limited. I started my degree in 2020 and hope to finish in 2024. I get up at 5:00 am for study, care for my family, work all day, and study a couple of hours before returning home at night. Before exams, I take a few days of vacation for study. I know this degree will help me grow as a person and provide a more secure life for my family. I know this is worth it!”

Of those who epitomize the faith I wanted to obtain, a faith like Sarah Ann, is John Murdock. At age seventeen John “came near bleeding to death; yea death stared me in the face, but I covenanted with my Heavenly Father that if he would preserve my life, I would serve him.” True to his resolve, John turned to prayer and meditation and began his search for the gospel of Jesus Christ that professed and practiced the ancient ordinances (see Journal of John Murdock, typescript, BYU-A, p. 3). He first united with the Lutheran Dutch Church, but “soon found they did not walk according to the scriptures.” He next joined the Presbyterian Cedar Church: “I soon became dissatisfied with their walk, for I saw it was not according to the scriptures.” He then united with the Baptists, but soon recognized “their walk not to agree with their profession, [and] I withdrew myself from them” (ibid., pp. 3–4).

Continuing his search for truth, John turned to the Methodist faith, but discovered “when I did not please them I would have to be silent among them awhile.” By 1827 he had joined the Campbellites. “It caused me to rejoice, believing that I had at last found a people that believed the scriptures,” wrote John. For three years he faithfully attended their meetings, but as the ministers denied the “gift and power of the Holy Ghost,” John lost interest and concluded “all the [religious] sects were out of the way” (ibid., pp. 4–5).

Then, in the winter of 1830, John’s prayers were answered. Four missionaries sent to the Lamanites arrived in Kirtland from the state of New York. They preached, baptized, and built up the Lord’s church after the ancient order. Curious, John journeyed twenty miles to see for himself the new preachers and rebuffed a Campbellite who tried to dissuade him: “I told him I was of age, and the case was an important one, of life, and death, existing between me and my God, and I must act for myself, for no one can act for me” (ibid., p. 6).

He arrived at Isaac Morley’s home in Kirtland about dusk and was introduced to the four men and presented a copy of the Book of Mormon. As he read the new scripture,
The spirit of the Lord rested on me, witnessing to me of the truth of the work. . . . About ten o’clock [the next] morning, being November 5th, 1830, I told the servants of the Lord that I was ready to walk with them into the water of baptism. [Ibid., p. 7]

“This was the third time I had been immersed, but I never before felt the authority of the ordinance, but I felt it this time and felt as though my sins were forgiven,” wrote John. After being ordained an elder, he returned home rejoicing and endeavored “to bear testimony,” and to his joy, “My family gladly received me and my words, thank the Lord” (ibid., pp. 7–8).

On a late spring day the telephone roused me from a peaceful sleep. I groggily looked at my alarm clock and saw that it was five in the morning. I knew that phone calls at that hour usually don’t bring good news. My father rustled downstairs and I listened.
“Oh no, Mom. I’m so sorry …” his voice trailed off, and I heard a long, deep sigh. Instinctively I wondered if my grandparents were okay. My father spoke again. “Yes, I can get there. I’ll leave this morning. I’m sure that Maryanne will come, too. You rest, if you can. I know there are things to arrange, but leave them to your home teacher. … The kids? Yes, I think they can make the trip.”
As he spoke those words, I knew that I would not go fishing again with my Grandpa McClary in the Windmakers.
As the weeks passed, I wondered if I would ever visit the Windmakers again. Grandpa McClary was so much a part of those trips, from the packing ritual on Saturday to the gingersnaps each evening at water’s edge. I knew how difficult it would be for me to look upstream and not see him smiling and waving, the old blue cap perched on his head The trip wouldn’t be the same; therefore, I reasoned, it wouldn’t be as good. And the secret of the Windmakers? Maybe Grandpa was just talking. Maybe there was no real secret. I made up my mind: no more trips to the Windmakers. It was a part of my life that was over. All good things must come to an end, and this was one of them. I congratulated myself on my maturity. I was learning some lessons early in life, or so I thought.
School let out, and I got a part-time job at a grocery store. August was coming fast, and to my satisfaction, nothing had been said about a fishing trip with my father. Certainly I wasn’t going to bring up the subject.
Then my mom stepped in.
I was at the grocery store one Monday afternoon pulling cans of corn to the front of the shelf, my thoughts a million miles away.
“Excuse me, sir, but where may I find the canned corn?”
“Right here—oh, hi Mom! I didn’t recognize your voice. Guess my mind was wandering.”
“Thinking of a vacation? Tahiti? Paris? Fishing with your father?”
“Tahiti sounds fine, but I don’t think I’ll be going to the Windmakers without Grandpa.” A slight look of disappointment flickered across her face, but she quickly recovered and smiled.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the same. But have you thought it might be a great trip for just you and your father?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I answered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
She turned her head as though looking for something farther down the aisle. “Do you have a break coming, Jason? I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”
“Sure, I can take a few minutes. Let me check with Bill. Then I’ll meet you outside.”
Mom was sitting on the curb along the store’s parking lot. “Pull up a chair,” she said, motioning to the space next to her on the curb. “You’ve been on your feet since you came to work, I imagine.”
“You’ve got that right. So what’s up, Mom?”
“I’d like to talk about Dad’s vacation. I know that he’s just waiting for you to drop a hint about going back to the mountains. He’d take you up on it in a second, if he thought you wanted to return to the Windmakers.”
“But that’s the point, Mom. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ve decided I don’t want to go back there. That whole trip depended so much on Grandpa. He did everything.”
Mothers everywhere, I’m sure, are among the most persistent people in the world, and mine was no different. I could see by the look she gave me that she wasn’t about to let the subject die.
“Do you know why Grandpa McClary always took your father to the Windmakers?”
“Well, the fishing was always pretty good.”
“Think, Jason. That was much more than a fishing trip, and you know it.” She straightened her back and looked directly at me. “Your great-grandfather McClary was a miner. He was a hardworking man, and I guess a little bit stern. Maybe he had to be, because there wasn’t much room for frivolity in those days. Don’t mistake me, he was a good person and provided well for his family during some very lean years. But there was a price. He didn’t get as close to his children as he might have, particularly his oldest son, your Grandpa McClary,” Mom explained softly. “There was a distance between them, even though I know they loved each other.”
I’d heard only a little about my great-grandfather. I knew he worked in the mines, and that not a man in the county could hold out long against him in an arm wrestling match. But that was the extent of my knowledge about him.
“Grandpa McClary very simply did not want any distance between him and his son,” Mom continued. “He wanted to be close, just as your father wants always to be close to you. The fishing trip was one way of accomplishing that. It wasn’t a gimmick, understand. It was a tradition—a family tradition, started with a purpose.” Mom reached over and put her arm around my shoulders. “Jason, I just don’t want to see a third-generation legacy end.”
My head was down. “I didn’t think of it that way,” I said. Maybe my newfound maturity was really no more than an old-fashioned case of selfishness. Strong families have strong traditions. And I was on the verge of ending one that began 30 years earlier with my grandfather and father. I looked at Mom. “I’ll talk with Dad tonight.”
“Thanks, Jason. This means a lot to him,” she said, standing up. “You’d better get back to work now.”
It was a family custom to talk about the upcoming week and make plans after home evening. When the lesson was over, Dad looked at each of us. “Business?” he asked. “How about you, Maryanne?”
“A stake Primary meeting on Tuesday. That’s it for me.”
“Melissa?”
“Kristin asked me to come to her house on Thursday. Mom said it was okay with her if it’s okay with you,” my sister said.
“I don’t see why not, as long as Kristin’s parents know about it. Jason?”
“I’m only working Thursday and Friday of this week, so everyone should see me around a little more,” I said.
“Good. We haven’t seen enough of you since you started your job,” Dad said. He closed the family home evening book and started to stand up.
“Dad, there is something else,” I said. “I was wondering what we were going to do about our vacation in August.” I spoke slowly. “I’d like to go fishing again in the Windmakers.”
My father sat back down in his chair, a startled look on his face. “Are you sure, Jason?”
“I’m sure. It’s something that I don’t want to give up.”
Dad leaned all the way back in his chair. “This comes as a surprise. I didn’t think you wanted to go, so that’s why I never asked.” He looked at Mom and Melissa. “How about you two?”
“I think it would be great if you and Jason went to the mountains,” Mom answered, not trying to conceal her excitement in the slightest way. “Don’t worry about us. Melissa and I don’t exactly sit around and mourn your absence. It’s a time when we can do some things together, too.”
Dad’s enthusiasm was bubbling like a pot of boiling water. “Of course I need to check with Grandma, but my guess is that her only question will be why it took so long to ask. I’m sure we can find all the gear. Yes, I think we can work it all out.” He took off his glasses and bound out of his chair. “I’m going to the garage to begin sorting through some of the equipment.”
I can remember few times when I’d seen my father as happy. He reached the door leading to the garage and turned back towards me. “Jason, we’re going to the Windmakers.”
And so we did. Two weeks later, we left for Springvale on a Friday afternoon. Saturday morning, Dad rummaged through Grandpa’s basement. He found everything we needed for camping. He even came across Grandpa’s fishing hat and tried it on. “Naw, let’s retire it,” he said while glancing in a mirror. “Only Grandpa could wear this thing and make it look right.” We spent all afternoon packing. The results weren’t up to Grandpa’s standards, but we guessed he would have approved anyway. Dad pointed the pickup truck toward the street, so that we wouldn’t lose precious seconds Monday.
On Sunday we went to church. In priesthood meeting, Dad stood and introduced us. “I’m Richard McClary, and I grew up in this ward. This is my son, Jason, and it’s a family tradition for us to go fishing here at this time of the year. We’ll be back in our home ward next week, but I’ll be sure to have my mother tell you who was victorious—the fish or the fishermen.”
Monday, we arose before dawn and ate a big breakfast with Grandma. We drove to the Windmakers and set up our camp just as we had in all the previous years. We fished all day. In the evening, Dad took over the cooking chores. “You’re not as good as Grandpa, but you show potential,” I told him between bites.
After dinner, we went to the edge of the stream. Right on cue, Dad pulled a bag of gingersnaps from his coat. We climbed a couple of boulders, munched on cookies, and talked for hours as the sun dropped below the ridge line and the stars took their places in the sky. The wind came huffing down the canyon, like an old friend calling.
“The Windmakers, Jason. I’m glad we came.”
“So am I.”
With the wind on my face, sitting at streamside, it seemed that Grandpa McClary wasn’t very far away at all.

My soccer team went to a tournament on a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. My mom asked me what I was going to do about Sunday’s game. I said I didn’t know what to do. My dad encouraged me to pray, so I prayed about it. That night, the song “Nephi’s Courage” got stuck in my head. I knew Heavenly Father answered my prayers through that song so I would remember to have courage to obey His commandments. On Sunday after church, I knew my team was playing. I was a little sad that I couldn’t help my team, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I am glad that Heavenly Father helped me make the right choice, even though it was hard to make.

I recently became employed in Bengaluru, India, a city that is far from my hometown of Chennai. I enjoyed my new job; however, going to a new branch was a different feeling. I felt like a stranger, and I missed my home branch. Then I read the article “Making Any Ward ‘Home’” in the January 2008 Liahona. I felt comforted, and I started introducing myself to many members. I received a calling and made new friends. Most importantly, I know better why I come to church. Now I look for new faces and reach out to them. Thank you for the article.
Joseph Isaac, India

“Wash your hands for supper,” Mother called from the kitchen. “Our home teachers are coming tonight. They’ll be here at seven o’clock.”
Ryan liked their home teachers to come. One—Brother Toft—was a real jet fighter pilot and told awesome stories. Ryan lived near the Air Force base. Every time an airplane zoomed overhead, he and his sister, Becky, rushed outside to wave, just in case Brother Toft was in it.
Ryan had a lot on his mind these days. Soon he was to have open-heart surgery. He wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he had been in several hospitals and had seen many doctors. Looking at his soapy hands in the running water, he remembered a doctor’s hands in see-through gloves. “This won’t hurt you,” the doctor had promised. “The gloves just keep my hands clean so that I don’t give you any germs.” Ryan thought now, Maybe if I got see-through gloves, I wouldn’t have to wash up so much!
Dessert was the best part of supper. Mother served scoops of ice cream; then Becky stuck a chocolate sandwich cookie into the top of Ryan’s treat and teased, “Here’s your favorite.”
He did enjoy cookies! The last time he stayed in the hospital, a nurse had asked, “What would you like?” Ryan didn’t know that she was offering him a drink, and when he’d answered, “I like cookies,” she smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” She came back with two cookies in a plastic bag. Ryan had been too ill to eat them, but he’d held onto them until his stomach felt better.
“Bring your dishes over, Ryan,” Mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “Hurry—let’s get the kitchen cleaned up before the home teachers come.”
Ryan carried his dishes to the sink, then skipped to the front window and looked down the hillside. “I’ll watch for their car!”
“I hope they come in Brother Odahlan’s cute pumpkin beetle car,” Becky said.
Ryan hoped so too. He wondered what it would be like to ride in the little orange car all the way to Primary Children’s Medical Center. It would take all the next day to make that trip in Daddy’s big car, he knew. “Here they come! I see the pumpkin car.”
Becky and Ryan met the home teachers at the door. Entering in Sunday suits, Brother Toft and young Brother Odahlan looked like missionaries. Ryan’s brother, Rick, was on a mission to Greece. Ryan didn’t know where Greece was, but he had watched Rick climb onto a huge airplane to fly to the “other side of the world.” I hope I live to be a missionary, Ryan thought.
Brother Toft carried a brown paper bag. It looked heavy. “We have a special message for Ryan tonight,” he began. “Would you sit here between us?”
Ryan eagerly climbed up on the sofa between his home teachers.
“Now, Ryan, tonight’s lesson is for you, but is it all right if the rest of your family listens too?” Ryan having grinned permission, Brother Toft opened his scriptures. “The Book of Mormon tells us about a time when Jesus Christ came to our continent.”
Brother Odahlan said, “While he was here, he did many good things. For example, he taught the people to pray always and that anytime anyone needed help, he could ask Heavenly Father for it. Do you know how to pray?”
Ryan nodded.
“Jesus called the sick to him and blessed each of them,” Brother Toft added. “He also called all the children to him and blessed them. Ryan, did you know that the same priesthood power Jesus used is in this room tonight?” Brother Toft pointed to Ryan’s father. “Your dad holds this priesthood power.”
Ryan smiled at Dad. He wanted to be just like Dad. He hoped that he would grow up and hold the priesthood, too, someday.
Brother Toft assisted as Dad gave Ryan a blessing. In it, Heavenly Father promised that Ryan would have a good heart surgery and would get better. Ryan knew that it was true. He felt happy.
After a family prayer, the home teachers had a surprise. Ryan watched Brother Odahlan open the large brown paper bag and take out gifts. “These are for you, Ryan. Do you want to open them in the car on your way to Utah, in the hospital, or right now?”
That wasn’t a hard decision! Everyone watched as Ryan opened gift after gift. There were toys and games and books and crayons—even a bucket of animal cookies to eat on the way to the hospital in Salt Lake City.
Finally there was one present left. Brother Toft held it up high. “This one is different,” he said. “This one is for you to give to Becky.”
Willingly Ryan handed it over and watched Becky unwrap it. Thirty colorful candy sticks were tied with a pretty ribbon.
“That is a candy calendar, Becky.” Brother Odahlan explained. “You can eat one candy stick each day that your mother and Ryan are gone.”
“Our home teachers think of everything,” Mother said.
“My young companion helps me,” Brother Toft admitted. “He came up with the idea for this lesson.”
That night Ryan packed his treasures for the trip. “I’m glad that Jesus sends us home teachers,” he whispered when Mother tucked him into bed that night. “I think that, in a way, they’re going with me, and I’m glad.”

When Ron was about 17 and I was about 12, his teacher told him that he needed to gain a testimony of his own. He said to me, “I intend to find out for myself if the Church is true. I’m going to pay any price to know for myself.”
Over the next few weeks, I watched him. I’d find him on his knees praying. I’d see him reading the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at how diligent he was.
One morning a few weeks later, I found Ron lying on his bed with his knees tucked up on his chest. He had great pain in his lower right abdomen.
My mom called for an ambulance. As we stood there over my brother, Ron said to my dad through gritted teeth, “Please, I need a priesthood blessing.” I didn’t know if my dad knew how to give a priesthood blessing. I’d never seen him do it. But he laid his hands on my brother’s head and pronounced a blessing of healing. About the time my dad said, “Amen,” Ron jumped off the bed and said the pain was totally gone. He was absolutely thrilled that the Lord had answered his prayer through that blessing.
My parents still took my brother to the hospital to be checked. All the doctors could say was that Ron’s symptoms sounded like he had had a ruptured appendix, but now they could find no trace of a problem.
Later that day, Ron told me, “Gene, I now know that the gift of healing is real. When Dad put his hands on my head, I felt the Spirit of the Lord go through my whole body. I know the priesthood is real.”
Then he said, “I also now know for myself that the Church is true. Not because of the healing, but because of what has been happening to me in reading the Book of Mormon. I’ve got my testimony by reading and praying over every page. I know all that we’ve been taught in the Church is correct, and I am going on a mission.” I’d never heard Ron say that before. It was evident to me, even as a young boy, that he had really been impacted by something.

I am thinking of the kinds of confidence expressed by President Tanner in a story he told in General Conference several years ago. I will relate it in his own words:

Some years ago in Canada I was driving along and had two young men with me in my car, and a young man thumbed a ride with us. I asked the boys who were with me if we should take him with us, and they said yes. I picked him up, and after we had driven along a little way he said, “Do you mind if I smoke in your car?”

I said, “No, not at all if you can give me any good reason why you should smoke.” And I said, “I will go farther than that.” (I was stake president at this time.) “If you can give me a good reason why you should smoke, I will smoke with you.” Well, my two young friends looked at me and wondered.

We drove on for some distance, about twenty minutes, I think, and I turned around and said, “Aren’t you going to smoke?”

And he said, “No.”

I said, “Why not?”

And he said, “I can’t think of a good reason why I should.” [CR, April 1965, p. 93]