Gospel Story Finder

During the final years of his life, President Benson’s once-powerful physical body steadily weakened. At first, he met with the Saints at general conferences when he could, waving to the congregation from his wheelchair. Later, his health prevented him from attending general conference. At home, in his apartment across from the Church Office Building, he still visited with General Authorities who came to express their love and also to consult with him on matters of concern. His beloved Flora passed away on 14 August 1992, after a loving companionship of sixty-six years.

President Benson’s forceful personality likewise mellowed and softened with age, observed a close associate. “Although many people grow grouchy and demanding with advanced age and infirmity, President Benson grew even sweeter and more grateful for the things others did for him.” To the end of his life, this prophet exemplified the sweet fruits of the gospel of Christ.

I don’t know your name, how old you are, or anything else about you. All I know is that you are Joann’s visiting teacher, and I appreciate your conscientious service with all my heart.
I know that visiting a less-active sister like Joann (name has been changed), my daughter-in-law, is not easy, especially when she probably isn’t very welcoming. I doubt she even wanted you to come at first. But Joann has told me you have been a real friend to her, stopping by to see how she’s doing and accepting her as she is.
In the 19 years since Joann married my son, this is the first time she has ever mentioned having a visiting teacher. Recently she told me how regularly you visit and how thoughtful and kind you always are. She said you have helped her several times when she was sick and have even offered to take my granddaughter to Young Women.
For the past 10 years, she, my son, and their family have lived hundreds of miles from us. I have prayed that others would love and care for them as I do, and I have pleaded tearfully with Heavenly Father that others would reach out to them as I would if they lived close by. From what Joann says, you are the answer to my prayers.
Even if Joann and my son don’t obey the Word of Wisdom and don’t attend church, they are still good people and they love their children. Somehow your eyes were not clouded by Joann’s cigarette smoke. You did not define her by whether she attended church. You got to know her and learned that she is a loving mother who wants her daughter to attend church and gain a testimony. And when Joann had surgery, you brought in dinner instead of wondering if she had brought some of her health problems upon herself.
How grateful I am that you are an example for my granddaughter. She can look up to you as someone who cares about everyone and goes out of her way to show loving concern. She told me that one day when you didn’t have a car, you walked more than a mile to her house with your small children to bring cookies.
“I was thinking of you and your mom and wanted to do something nice for you—just because,” you told her.
I wish I could tell you how much I appreciate your dedication to your calling as a visiting teacher. You epitomize those women who, since the days of Nauvoo, have served each other through loving and inspired visiting teaching. You have demonstrated that service and love through the way you have affectionately visited my less-active daughter-in-law.
Thank you.

I will always be grateful I had the opportunity of growing up with the welfare plan. My father was a bishop at the time of its beginning. He had a remarkable way of involving his family with him in his Church assignments. At an early, impressionable age I was taught the blessings of Church service.
I will always remember the dignity and patience he exhibited towards those in need. I particularly remember a little old man who had lost his wife and some of the soundness of his mind. My father not only filled the role of his bishop, but also that of his friend. To the family, however, this little old man was considered to be somewhat of a pest. When he would become lonely he would make his way to see my father. It didn’t matter whether it was ten o’clock at night or five-thirty in the morning, Father would always welcome him into our home, give him some nourishment, and then he would drive him back to his place of residence.
I remember at his passing seeing Father reading a letter addressed to “My friend, Bishop Perry,” as a final thank-you for taking an interest in his life when he was an old man. I saw the tears roll down my father’s cheeks as he read the letter. It was then I think I recognized for the first time an understanding of the rewards of gospel service.

As the time for the Festa Del Grillo (Festival of the Cricket) drew near in Florence, Romano was ready. He had been saving his money and knew the cricket he wanted to buy.
The coins jingled in his pocket as he hurried to the cricket shop.
“If my cricket is judged the best singer in the Festa Del Grillo,” Romano murmured, “it could bring happiness back to my family. A singing cricket always brings good luck.”
Romano remembered the smiles of his mother and father and the singing in their home before his little brother became terribly ill. Now that his brother was gone, there was no singing and only a rare smile. Maybe the cricket will help, he hoped. Romano knew he must choose his cricket well to get a singer.
A tiny bell rang as the boy opened the door to the shop. Many people bought crickets at this time of the year, and there were many from which to choose.
“Buon giorno (good morning),” he said to the shopkeeper. “I want to buy a cricket that is a good singer. See the cage I have made for him.”
“It is a fine cage,” said the shopkeeper. “And I have a fine cricket for it. Look closely, now, Romano. There is only a tiny stripe on this one, but it marks him for a good singer.”
“I shall take him then,” said Romano. He spread out his money for the shopkeeper to see. “This is all I have,” he said.
The shopkeeper gathered up several of the coins. “This is just right,” he said. “Just what I must have for that fine cricket.”
Romano put the cricket inside the cage and fastened the tiny door. “I hope he sings well,” said the boy. “My family needs some good luck.”
“As we all do,” said the shopkeeper, nodding. “With so many crickets, I cannot be certain which ones are singing the loudest. All I can tell you is that there is a lot of singing here in my shop. And he has the yellow stripe. He looks like he’ll be a singer.”
Several times on his way home, Romano stopped and put the cage up to his ear, but he heard nothing. Suppose after I spent my money the cricket won’t sing! he worried. But it must! The boy looked again for the tiny yellow stripe. Seeing it, he was reassured.
“See what a fine cricket I have,” he said to his parents when he had returned home. “He will bring us good luck when he begins to sing.”
His father looked up from his paper and nodded.
“Has he sung for you already?” asked his mother.
“Not yet,” replied Romano. “Perhaps he is hungry,” said his mother. “It is hard to sing when your stomach or your heart is hurting with emptiness.”
“That’s true,” said Romano. “I’ll go to the garden and get him a lettuce leaf. Then he’s sure to sing!”
The cricket began at once to make uneven scallops all along the edge of the ruffled leaf. But then it stopped. And still it did not sing.
That night it was quiet in the small apartment. Romano remembered when they had lived in the little country house and he and his brother had laughed together while his parents played music and sang. But tonight not even the cricket sang. His parents did not smile, nor did Romano.
On the morning of the Festa Del Grillo, Romano scrubbed himself until his face and his hair were as shiny as his dark eyes. He put on his best trousers and his bright red shirt and walked along beside his parents, carrying the cage. His mother’s blue flowered skirt softly swished as she walked, but that was about the only sound Romano heard. The cricket in the cage remained silent.
At the festival there was music, and friends greeted each other. There were also many things to buy and crickets that sang. The judges came by his cricket several times. Romano waited by the cage and listened and hoped. But his cricket did not sing.
Romano’s heart was heavy as he returned to the apartment. He had the same feeling that he had known before, one of being almost smothered by the high buildings. He longed for soft grass under his feet instead of the hard sidewalks and for the open country where he could sing without feeling closed in.
My cricket’s closed in! Could that be the reason it doesn’t sing? he wondered. He must give it one more chance. If only it would sing, just once, it might bring good luck to their home for a whole year. And so the boy waited. But no sound came.
At dusk he took the cage and left the apartment. He carried the cricket out to a hill beyond the city. There he stopped and opened the cage. And as the cricket took flight, the sound came that he had been waiting for. Yes! It was singing!
But it’s too late, thought Romano as he turned toward home. His cricket did not win at the Festa Del Grillo. Neither did it sing to bring good luck to their home. But in his sadness there was a tiny glow of happiness as he thought of his cricket flying free. Somewhere, at this very moment, it would still be singing.
As he neared his home he could see a light in the window. His parents were there in its glow, waiting for him. He held up the cage.
“The cricket!” exclaimed his father. “It is gone?”
“Yes,” said Romano. “He did not like the cage.”
His mother nodded. “That is good,” she said.
Romano shook his head. “But now there will be no good luck. We would have had it for a whole year if only he had sung in our home.”
His father arose and put an arm around the shoulders of the boy. “To turn the cricket free when the festival is over is a great kindness,” he said. “And even now, we have good luck. We have a son who wants happiness for a small cricket.”
Romano looked at his parents. On their faces he saw the smiles he had been longing for. He thought of his cricket, flying far and free. A good feeling crept over him, and in his heart, he, too, was singing.

“The Family: A Proclamation to the World” reminds us that “Children are an heritage of the Lord.”[3] I felt this deeply during the years we lived in Asia. Shortly after moving to Hong Kong, my husband and I met with an attorney regarding our Visas. We brought our three-month-old infant to the meeting. As the attorney passed us documents to sign, he paused, tilted his head back, and told us about a dream he had years earlier.

In his dream, he was seated at a table as large as the one where we sat. He was at one end and his wife at the other. There were four to five children lining each side. His voice trailed off as he lamented that his dream was not his reality. This man reminded me that children truly are a gift.

When I was fifteen years old I decided to buy a Bible. A spirit of restlessness had developed in me and I felt a great need to find answers concerning the reasons for existence.
I frequently gazed into the heavens and at the stars, wondering where God lived and what kind of being He was. When I read the words of Jesus in the Gospels, I believed them to be true. I recognized the path I should take. I loved the scriptures and I was not afraid of sharing this great joy of mine with others.
One principle that had great impact on me was the principle of faith, together with the various gifts of the Spirit: the gifts of healing, miracles, and revelation. I was convinced that if a person could have enough faith, he could truly move mountains.
I was so overcome by all this that I tried to share my joy with all of my friends. Franco, my dearest friend, was the first with whom I shared my beliefs and the results of my studies. We spoke often of the mystery of life. My other friends, however, did not show the same interest in these things.
Though I discussed these things with my friends, I had essentially embarked on this path alone, refusing to join any organized religion because I believed that I would be able to find my answer by increasing my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.
I felt a definite “progression” as I received confirmation of the things I learned through my reading. But this knowledge led to other questions for which I could find no answers.
One day, as I continued my search for truth, I found a book among several books at home: the Book of Mormon. I do not remember how it had come to be there. Possibly some missionaries had left it with my mother several years earlier when they were in our neighborhood.
As I began reading the Book of Mormon, I noticed that something wonderful and very real was happening in me. I sensed that the Author of the sacred scriptures I had already learned to love was also the Author of these new scriptures I had just found. These new scriptures confirmed the truth of the things I had read previously.
The greatest blessing I experienced was that all the questions that had arisen in my mind while studying the Bible, were answered while studying the Book of Mormon. It provided me with greater understanding by giving added light to Biblical scriptures.
The fact that we have the Book of Mormon in these latter-days confirmed my belief that God still performs miracles.
One day I received a visit from some ministers. I proceeded to show them the miraculous way in which God had once again given to man, through an angel, another collection of scriptures. One of them told me that all these things were manifestations of the devil. I could not share that opinion. I felt great harmony in everything I had read. At that time, I did not know of Ezekiel’s prophecy. I had taken the two “sticks,” the one of Judah (the Bible) and the one of Joseph (the Book of Mormon) and made them one in my hand and in my heart. (See Ezek. 37:16.)
All this had taken place without my knowing which church used the Book of Mormon. It was not until I was eighteen that I became acquainted with missionaries who taught from the Book of Mormon while they were conducting a street meeting in the center of Milan, Italy.
A few months later, guided and sustained by the scriptures, I was baptized into the Lord’s Church.

I love the temple because it’s a place where you can truly feel the Spirit. It’s a place of purity where you can really feel the love of Christ.
I had the opportunity to live in the United States for a year. After I got there, for a while I was really lonely. I missed my family and my home, but I struggled with more than just that. I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, I was having a hard time with the language and culture, and I had a little trouble with the family I was living with.
Even at church I sometimes felt alone. I felt like going home. I really wanted to see my family again.
But I started to think about Jesus Christ and how He suffered for me. I prayed, and God comforted me. Where I was staying, the temple was so close—just six minutes away. So I decided to go to the temple once a week, and that really was a blessing in my life.
Things began to change. I found some good friends, and God made it possible for me to continue to the end of my time away from home. I know that I felt comfort because of Jesus Christ. He gave me help and strength, and that gave me courage. People sometimes think that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is just about repentance. But Christ is also a source of great comfort. I know I can’t possibly understand everything He endured, but He understands me.
Yona C., 17, France

While I was at Duke University, I had the opportunity to play volleyball. On one of our trips I was in a discussion with two of our team members one of whom was in the Divinity School there and was in his last year and the other a younger student from Brazil. The divinity student had spent his last few summers doing student preaching (if that was what it was called.) He was a nice guy and everyone on the team got along great. The young man from Brazil was a fine player. As we traveled to a meet, the young Brazilian asked the "to be" minister a question. He stated that he was in love with a girl and wanted to know if it was wrong to have premarital relations with her. What did the future minister friend think? My friend said - "I think it is fine".

At that point I nearly scared them to death as I said in an agitated voice - what are you talking about? Haven't you read the Bible? I then quoted Matt 5:28 which reads, But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. I also pointed to counsel given by Paul to Timothy and Titus pointing out the sins of the flesh and commending them to be chaste. My friend agreed that indeed the scriptures said that and the discussion grew quiet. The young Brazilian had not gotten the permission slip he wanted and I may have embarrassed my divinity student friend. But in good conscience I could not let him give such bad counsel.

One group of people he has especially loved and served in his lifetime are the descendants of Lehi.
“I do not know when I began to love the children of Lehi,” said Elder Kimball in general conference in April 1947. “It may have come to me at birth, because those years preceding and after I was born, were spent by my father on missions among the Indians in Indian territory. He was president of the mission. This love may have come in those first years of my childhood, when my father used to sing the Indian chants to us children and show us souvenirs from and pictures of his Indian friends. It may have come from my patriarchal blessing which was given to me … when I was nine of age. One line of the blessing reads:
“‘You will preach the gospel to many people, but more especially to the Lamanites.’”
In 1945 President of the Church, George Albert Smith, called Elder Kimball into his office. “I want you to look after the Indians,” he said. “They are neglected. Take charge and watch after the Indians in all the world.”
Elder Kimball traveled thousands of miles to visit the Indians, to teach them, and to bless them. Discovering they needed and wanted more schools, he tried to help. Finding them sick or sad, he blessed them and taught them how important they were to their Father in Heaven. Finding them cold and hungry, he went to those who could help.
In 1947 the Navajo Indians on the reservation needed help desperately. Many had little to eat and nothing warm to wear. Elder Kimball spoke to the Church Welfare Committee, and truckloads of food and warm clothing were sent. Then he called a newspaper. A reporter and a photographer were sent to check the situation. When the article they wrote was printed, an Indian Aid Caravan was organized. Elder Kimball wrote to a senator in Washington, D.C., as well. He wrote to service clubs and mailed out pamphlets asking for aid.
His friends were helped, and they were grateful. One said, “Thank you. I will not freeze now.”
Traveling throughout the world to help these people he loved, Elder Kimball also spent weeks and months visiting Lehi’s children in Central and South America and in the Pacific Islands. He taught them about the Savior, Jesus Christ, and helped them with their problems. No matter how tired he was, he was never too tired to help.
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples,” said Jesus, “if ye have love one to another” (John 13:35).
Through his actions President Spencer W. Kimball has shown his love for his brothers and sisters. To follow him is to always be “doing the right thing.”

I was coming home from swimming lessons Saturday morning when I saw lots of people lined up for a parade. I asked my mom why we weren’t going to the parade. She told me it was because we needed to listen to general conference. I really wanted to go to the parade and was sad that we couldn’t go, but I told my mom that I knew it was more important to listen to conference and that I would do that instead. I liked listening to the prophet and other speakers. I know it helps us to learn more about Jesus.

I also know something of the tensions of uncertainty. When I was a seventeen-year-old high school student in Provo I joined the Utah National Guard field artillery unit that had once included my father. I was corporal in that unit when the Korean War broke out, two weeks after I graduated from high school. Our field artillery group was alerted for active duty, and most of the units were soon called up and sent to training and on to Korea. When it came time to register at BYU in the fall I fully expected to be on my way to Korea before my first quarter was over, but after prayerful consideration I decided to register anyway since this would at least give me something to do while I waited. In that atmosphere of uncertainty I began my college work. The tension and uncertainty continued for the succeeding four years, but so did I. My unit was never called, but the prospect was never far from my mind, especially since missionary work was sharply curtailed and persons immediately vulnerable to military orders, such as I, were not called.

Do you know what it means to minister? Think about this question while I tell you about a girl named Chy Johnson.

When Chy started high school last year, she became the victim of cruel and thoughtless bullying. She was mistreated, shoved, and taunted as she walked to class—some students even threw garbage at her. You have probably seen people mistreated like this in your school too.

For too many people, the teenage years are a time of loneliness and fear. It doesn’t have to be this way. Fortunately for Chy, there were young men at her school who understood what it means to minister.

Chy’s mother had asked teachers at the school to help stop the bullying, but it continued. She then contacted Carson Jones, an Aaronic Priesthood holder and the starting quarterback of the football team. She asked him to help her find out who was doing the bullying.

Carson agreed to help, but in his heart he felt that he could do much more than just identify the bullies. The Spirit whispered to him that he needed to help Chy feel loved.

Carson asked some of his teammates to join him in ministering to Chy. They invited her to sit with them during lunch. They walked her to class to make sure she was safe. Not surprisingly, with football players as her close friends, no one bullied Chy anymore.

This was an exciting season for the football team. But even with the thrill of an undefeated season, these young men did not forget about Chy. They invited her to join the team on the field after games. Chy felt loved and appreciated. She felt safe. She was happy.

The football team went on to win the state title. But something more important than a football championship happened at their school. The example of these young men has motivated other students to be more accepting, more friendly. They now treat each other with more kindness and respect.

National news media found out what these young men had done and shared their story across the country. What began as an effort to minister to one is inspiring thousands of others to do the same.

Chy’s mother calls these young men “angels in disguise.” Carson and his friends are quick to say that Chy has blessed their lives much more than they blessed hers. That’s what happens when you lose yourself in serving others—you find yourself. You change and grow in ways that would not be possible otherwise. These young men have experienced the joy of ministering and continue to seek opportunities to bless others. They are anxious to extend their ministering in the coming months when they serve as full-time missionaries.

While the whole Bennion family is special, each of the children stands out with his or her own unique talents and personality. One time when Kiera was three years old, her parents took her to see her cousins perform in a band in which they played violins. That night at home, Kiera walked in with her mother’s high heel shoe tucked under her chin and a screwdriver in her hand, pretending to play the shoe like a violin. Now she takes lessons on a real violin and on a piano, but it’s easy to see that her love for music started long ago.

We all have our own mountains to climb. We are all individuals with different challenges we face. What may be hard for one person may be easy for another. For example, I grew up in a family that we knew we were loved; we just didn’t verbally express it. In a Young Women lesson, we were challenged to go home and tell our parents we loved them. This might have been easy for some in my class, but for me, it was a mountain I had to climb. My mother was cleaning up in the kitchen as I paced the kitchen floor back and forth when finally, I spoke those three words: “I love you.” Why was that so hard? It was only three simple words. After that challenge, “I think I can” turned to “I knew I could,” which, from then on, I was able to verbally tell my parents I loved them on a regular basis. Because of repetition, those three words became easier to express through the years.

Subject: Lisa (Elizabeth)
Age: 13 years
Event: Discussion in the girl’s locker room of junior high school
“Lisa,” her friend Kara burst out excitedly, “I’ve talked to Ralph!”
“What did he say?” Lisa answered quickly, but then catching herself, she added cooly, “Not that I care.”
“He said that you said that he said that he didn’t like you, but he said that he didn’t say that.”
“He did so,” Lisa accused. “He told Mike who told Janice who told Shelley who told me.”
“He said that even if he did say it, which he didn’t, he was joking. He said that he does like you.”
“If he likes me,” Lisa asked, putting a fresh stick of gum in her mouth, “then why did he throw an eraser at me yesterday?”
“Silly,” Kara said knowingly, “that’s how boys show they like a girl.”
“It is?” Lisa asked.
“Sure. Larry Hill threw a water balloon at me last week, and I know he likes me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because his face gets red when he talks to me.”
“Oh,” Lisa considered. “I wonder if Ralph’s face would get red if I talked with him.”__________

One of the nursing students who went to Australia for Study Abroad wrote in her final paper about an uncomfortable experience she had that helped her to gain a more Christlike perspective. She prefaced her story by saying she had been distressed by a relative’s rather crude and derogatory remark about the work she would be doing for the rest of her life because she had chosen to be a nurse. With her permission and in her own words, Jenn Jackson said:

One of the most beautiful moments I had on this trip was watching Amanda—one of the nurses at Best of Care—talk to, touch, and treat a patient. The patient was one who many of the caregivers refused to take on their caseloads because his house was filthy, he owned seven or eight cats, and he was completely unhygienic. There was a horrible odor exuding from who knows where. Not only that, sometimes he was known as being grouchy and critical. With all that being known to Amanda, she took us to his home and introduced us to him. She treated him with the utmost respect, talked to him about his life and his family, sat on his cat-fur–lined sofa, and touched his hand. She then began teaching us about some of the problems he had, and at one point she took off his socks with her bare hands. His legs were disgusting and lined with dead skin. He had gout in his toes and fungus on his nails. I couldn’t believe it when she held his foot and touched him without being repulsed. . . .

After telling us some things about his feet and legs, she gently put his dirty sock back on, patted his shoulder, wished him a good day, and took us home. As I thought about that experience, I thought about the Savior and how He touched the lepers on their rotten skin, washed the dirty feet of the twelve apostles, and went places that were not always the nicest places in town. The Savior went to people’s homes regardless of how rich or poor they were. He touched them, without gloves, regardless of how disgusting they were. He cleansed them regardless of how dirty they were.

Now when I think about the statement made by my relative, I don’t get frustrated. It is still a completely simplified statement of what I will be doing with the rest of my life, but I realize now that it may not be all that inaccurate. I will be serving my brothers and sisters, Heavenly Father’s children, and will be doing for them what they cannot do for themselves, just like the Savior. If the King of Kings and Lord of Lords can humble Himself enough to touch and cleanse the lowest of the low, then I can do it too. I can be a tool in His hands by touching, cleansing, and healing, and there is no disgrace in being a tool in the hand of the greatest Healer of all.

Moving can be a scary thing, especially when you go from sixth grade in an elementary school to sixth grade in a middle school, as I did.
My mom took me to school on my first day to get me enrolled. After a quick tour of the school with the school counselor, we were taken to my classroom. My teacher wasn’t there when we arrived, so the counselor said he would find her and let her know I was new in the class. Then he left us with a class full of kids busy with schoolwork.
I was becoming nervous when one boy turned around and said, “Are you new?”
I said, “Yes.”
He stood up, walked over, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Chase.”
“I’m Zack,” I said, shaking his hand. To my surprise, several other boys lined up with outstretched hands and introduced themselves. I didn’t dare look at my mom because I thought she might be crying because these boys made me feel so welcome. I felt good the rest of the day because a group of boys noticed someone who needed a handshake.
After school, my mom asked me how it felt to have a welcome like that. “It felt good!” I said. She told me that if I ever noticed a new person, I would know what to do to make them feel good, too.

If you’ve read the first verse of the Book of Mormon, you already know something about 17-year-old Juan Ordoñez and his 15-year-old sister, Mayra, of the Pachitol Ward, Patzicía Guatemala Stake.
Juan, Mayra, and their seven older brothers and sisters were “born of goodly parents,” who have passed on skills the family needs to survive, such as the family trades of farming and tortilla making, as well as the language of their ancestors, Cakchiquel.
But those aren’t the only ways their family is like Nephi’s. Juan and Mayra have parents who understand that it is as important to pass on a “knowledge of the goodness and the mysteries of God” (1 Nephi 1:1) as it is to pass on physical survival skills.
While many teens don’t have Lehi-and Sariah-like parents to pass on the gospel (see sidebar on page 47), for Juan, Mayra, and others who do, the question is: Will we be Nephi-like learners, who listen, apply gospel truths, and pass them along as well? Or will we be like Laman and Lemuel, who heard the same information but didn’t want to find out the truth for themselves and couldn’t pass it on?
Juan can’t remember how old he was when he started working with his dad in the fields. “The children would start going with me when they were small,” Juan’s dad, Joel, says. “They learned by watching and then doing what they could, depending on their strength and capacity.”
Mayra learned to make tortillas the same way, watching her mom and sisters until she was old enough to pitch in and help.
But plowing, planting, and tortilla making aren’t the only things being passed from one generation to the next. As Mayra’s mother, Carmela, molded and shaped tortillas, she was also giving shape to her daughter’s character. As Brother Ordoñez prepared, planted, or cultivated the ground, he was doing the same for Juan’s heart.
As the family spent time together, the children could see not just how their parents worked but how they lived. And when the opportunity arose, their parents made the gospel a topic of conversation while they worked.
But observing—and even doing—isn’t always enough. In the Book of Mormon’s first family, Laman and Lemuel heard the same things that Nephi heard from their father, and they too even went and did what their father asked. But they were missing something important, something that Juan and Mayra have—a desire to learn.
Juan and Mayra live in Patzicía, a Cakchiquel community a few hours from Guatemala City. Because many of those who buy their tortillas and seek their plowing services don’t speak Spanish, it was important to Juan and Mayra to learn Cakchiquel.
But not everyone feels that way. Cakchiquel isn’t taught in the schools. The language has been passed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years. However, in each succeeding generation there are many who don’t want to learn it or feel they don’t need it.
A desire to know is key in more than just learning a language. Lehi wanted his family to know for themselves that the gospel is true, but not all of his family wanted to know (see 1 Nephi 8:12, 17–18). In addition to hearing his father and doing what he asked, Nephi wanted to know for himself (see 1 Nephi 10:17). Laman and Lemuel, though they had obeyed their father, had done it grudgingly (see 1 Nephi 2:11–12). They weren’t interested in making the effort to find out for themselves, saying, “The Lord maketh no such thing known unto us” (see 1 Nephi 15:8–9).
As their children grew, Brother and Sister Ordoñez often wondered if their children would listen. Would they obey? Would they want to know, like Nephi? Would they pass the gospel on to their children?
It may be too early to tell. But Brother and Sister Ordoñez have reason to hope.
Their older children are starting to pass gospel truths on. And the younger children are recognizing the importance of passing the gospel on too. “It’s hard sometimes to take counsel from your parents,” Juan says. “But I’m grateful for their help.”
“They didn’t just teach me how to cook beans and make tortillas,” Mayra says. “They have taught me the right path—to follow God.”

Let me close with an example of how one whose light was burning bright affected others and turned what was a haunted place, at least for one person, into a holy place. It comes from an article written by Rick Reilly, who in my opinion is one of the best sportswriters of our time. It was written in the fall of 2012. Because he writes so well, I will quote extensively from his version of the story:

In the scrub-brush desert town of Queen Creek, Ariz., high school bullies were throwing trash at sophomore Chy Johnson. Calling her “stupid.” Pushing her in the halls. [Making it, I would say, a haunted place.]
Chy’s brain works at only a third-grade level because of a genetic birth defect, but she knew enough to feel hate.
“She’d come home every night at the start of the school year crying and upset,” says her mom, Liz Johnson. “That permanent smile she had, that gleam in her eye, that was all gone.”
Her mom says she tried to talk to teachers and administrators and got nowhere. So she tried a whole new path—the starting quarterback of the undefeated football team. After all, senior Carson Jones had once escorted Chy to the Special Olympics.
“Just keep your ear to the ground,” Liz wrote to Carson on his Facebook page. “Maybe get me some names?”
But Carson Jones did something better than that. Instead of ratting other kids out, he decided to take one in—Chy.
He started asking her to eat at the cool kids’ lunch table with him and his teammates. “I just thought that if they saw her with us every day, maybe they’d start treating her better,” Carson says. . . .
It got better. Starting running back Tucker Workman made sure somebody was walking between classes with Chy. In classes, cornerback Colton Moore made sure she sat in the row right behind the team.
Just step back a second. In some schools, it’s the football players doing the bullying. At Queen Creek, they’re stopping it. And not with fists—with straight-up love for a kid most teenage football players wouldn’t even notice, much less hang out with. . . .
It’s working.
“I was parking my car yesterday, and I saw a couple of the guys talking to her and being nice,” says offensive lineman Bryce Oakes. “I think it’s making a difference around here.”
And the best thing is? The football players didn’t tell anybody.
“I didn’t know about any of this until three weeks ago,” says Carson’s mom, Rondalee, who’s raising four boys and a daughter by herself. “He finally showed me an article they wrote here locally. I said, ‘Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you tell me this?’”
All of a sudden, Chy started coming home as her bubbly self again. When her mom asked why she was so happy, she said, “I’m eating lunch with my boys!” . . .
I get emailed stories like this a lot, but most of the time they don’t pan out. They turn out to be half true, or true for the first week but not the second. But when I walked into the Queen Creek High School cafeteria Tuesday, unannounced, there was 4-foot-high Chy with 11 senior football players, eating her lunch around the most packed lunch table you’ve ever seen, grinning like it was Christmas morning. . . .
“I thank Carson every chance I see him,” says Chy’s mom. “He’s an amazing young man. He’s going to go far in life.”
Nobody knows how far Chy Johnson will go in life. The life expectancy of those afflicted with her disease, microcephaly, is only 25–30 years. But her sophomore year, so far, has been unforgettable. [I might say it has been turned from a haunted place into a holy place.] . . .
But what about next year, when Carson probably will be on his Mormon mission and all of Chy’s boys will have graduated?
Not to worry. Carson has a little brother on the team, Curtis, who’s in Chy’s class.
“Mom,” he announced at the dinner table the other night, “I got this.”
Lucky girl.30

One young man changed forever my feelings about the value of this gift, and what it means to be a child of promise. Bob Allen was an undergraduate at Stanford University when I was his bishop. He left his schooling to serve a mission in Japan. He came back to school, took up his studies, and lived as many of you do, in a world of too many demands and too little time.

One day I was sitting at my desk in the graduate school of business at Stanford, head down, struggling with the blue books and papers that bear down on your professors as much as they do on you. The door was open into a hallway. It must have been late because the hall was dark, and I expected no one. Suddenly I sensed someone was standing motionless in the doorway. I looked up and saw two people. They were standing side-by-side, looking at me and smiling. I remember to this hour that their faces seemed to shine. Suddenly, Bob Allen stepped between them and, smiling as broadly as they were smiling, said, “These are two new bishops from Japan.” They could speak little English, but I could tell they loved Bob Allen and, because of something he must have told them, they loved me.

After a few awkward minutes of trying to talk with them through Bob, they left. I thought then, as I have many times since, how remarkable it was that he had found time to spend days with those young men from Japan.

Within a few years I left Stanford for Idaho. I’d heard little of Bob, except that he had graduated from Stanford and had been accepted at the University of Utah medical school. Then I got a phone call from a Stanford friend. He told me Bob had been killed. He told me that Bob’s parents would grant me the chance to say a few words at his funeral. Just before the service I met with friends, Bob’s and mine. I asked to know more about how the accident had occurred.

Bob had been killed mountain climbing, climbing through clouds and storms to find a way of escape for his companions on the mountainside. I felt impressed to ask one who had been there, “What was he doing in camp on the climb?” He said Bob had taken his missionary lessons, in Japanese. He’d studied them again the night before his death. Now, of all the things you might decide to study at night, on a mountain-climbing trip, in the summer before medical school, why would you choose that? Well, I think I know why Bob did. I think he would have heard the words of President Benson and known they were true, the words he lived by: “You have been born at this time for a sacred and glorious purpose.”

I spoke in a sacrament meeting in Tokyo ten years later. The person who introduced me mentioned I had been at Stanford. Two young people, a couple, rushed to me after the meeting and said, “Did you know Bob Allen? We love him.” Just a few months ago I was in Tokyo again. Of all the excellent presentations made to me, one seemed most remarkable. I asked to see the man who made it. He was introduced, and then he said, “We have met before, at Stanford University.” He was the young man, now older, who had stood with his fellow bishop in my office door. He told me about his life, and the life of the other man, now a great leader in Japan. In that moment I learned again, in my heart as well as in my head, what it means to have a royal inheritance of time, and how a child of promise who believes the promises can invest it—even just a little of it—to produce returns for eternity.