Gospel Story Finder

My mind was focused on the Savior as the congregation finished singing the sacrament hymn, but as I started to close the hymnbook, the music continued. A large congregation that day made it necessary for the organist to play two more verses while the priests finished breaking the bread. I was grateful for the extra time. It allowed me an additional moment of reverent meditation before the sacramental prayers.
During the prayers, I followed carefully the words the priests spoke as they blessed the emblems of Christ’s sacrifice for us. Just as the final prayer concluded and at the moment when the congregation voiced their assent, a four-year-old boy’s voice from two rows behind me sprang from the midst of the “amens.”
“Hooray!” he exclaimed.
His spontaneous expression was loud enough to cause several children nearby to giggle. I confess that it brought a quizzical smile to my lips.
“Hooray?” I thought. That’s an odd response to the sacrament prayers. It was certainly a response I’d never heard before and likely will never hear again. After all, we end our prayers with “amen.”
Perhaps that young child had sensed more of the truth than I had.
Hooray communicates excitement. It is an exclamation of joy, usually for a victory. Sometimes it’s shouted to show approval for someone who has finished a difficult task well.1
Instantly, my mind caught hold of the idea. Yes, I thought, hooray that Jesus Christ overcame death so we can all be resurrected! Hooray that because of His Atonement, He can forgive our sins! More to the point, He can forgive me of my sins! Hooray that through His grace I may return to my Heavenly Father and enjoy the hope of eternal life! Yes! Hooray!
As I silently shouted these praises of thanks to my Heavenly Father, the Holy Ghost flooded my heart with a joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had been led that day by a little child (see Isaiah 11:6), and I rejoiced with fresh vision for the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement in my life.

As an Aaronic Priesthood young man, I can remember the excitement I felt as a newly ordained deacon. I looked forward to being able to fulfill my priesthood assignments. As a young Primary boy, I watched the deacons in my ward very closely in anticipation of the day I would be 12 years old, receive the priesthood, and be able to pass the sacrament. That day finally arrived, and soon after being ordained by my father, who was the bishop of the ward, I felt ready, but nervous, to begin my duties as a new deacon.
I now belonged to a quorum of the Aaronic Priesthood. The members of my quorum became very best friends. That friendship and quorum brotherhood continued to grow through my youth as we learned and served together in our priesthood duties. We were all good friends and experienced a fun and enjoyable time being together in our quorum activities.
One Sunday following one of those warm and long sacrament meetings, the first counselor in our bishopric called me aside to talk to me. This unscheduled priesthood interview became a blessing in my life as I have pondered the question he asked during our brief but significant visit. Brother Bateman looked me in the eye and asked, “Dean, do you know who you are?” There was complete silence, and then he gave me a quick and powerful reminder, “You are the son of Reid Burgess.”
The meaning and significance of that question has burned in my heart for a long time, and I often reflected on it throughout my teenage years. This good brother’s question—“Do you know who you are?”—has given me inspired direction throughout my life and a commitment to bring respect and honor to my family and to the priesthood.

Most of the Laie Hawaii Temple was built with concrete made from crushed lava rock. But the builders also needed wood, which was hard to get in Hawaii because of World War I. One day one of the builders prayed and told Heavenly Father that they needed more lumber, or wood, to continue construction. After his prayer, a ship got stuck in a reef on its way to Honolulu. The owner said the local Saints could have his cargo if they would take it off of the ship. Guess what the ship was carrying? Lumber! (From Gerry Avant, “Building a Temple in Laie, Hawaii,” Church News, Nov. 18, 2010.)

Some time ago I sinned, then said a prayer and thought I had truly repented. One day I felt a great feeling in my heart that I should have a very honest conversation with the bishop. I talked to the bishop, and he guided me where I should improve. I fasted and offered fervent prayers. This time I felt I had truly repented. I know Heavenly Father cares for us and that the Atonement of Christ gives us true forgiveness when we repent and confess our sins.
Awrellyano Gomes da S.

As the Church continues to expand throughout the world, many members live where we have no chapels—and may not for the foreseeable future. I remember a family who, because of such circumstances, was required to meet in their home. I asked the mother how she liked going to church in her own home. She replied, “I like it! My husband uses better language at home now, knowing that he will bless the sacrament here each Sunday.”

Young Women in the Scotch Plains Ward, Morristown New Jersey Stake, went out on a limb for scripture study. What started out as a project for the “Experiment upon the Word” program has turned into a growing tradition.
Each girl set a goal for personal scripture study and wrote it on a piece of fruit made from construction paper. For each week that she reached her goal, every girl put a leaf on the tree, which is now loaded with them!
“Reading the scriptures has helped me in my life. It has made me feel more peaceful, and it has given me more faith in the gospel,” says one Beehive.
“Experiment upon the Word” has ended, but the girls in Scotch Plains are still adding leaves to their tree and building testimonies that are firmly rooted in the scriptures.

I think of another. I knew him well. He joined the Church when long ago I was a missionary in the British Isles. He had a smoking habit. He prayed for strength in that springtime of his Church membership and the Lord answered his prayer and gave him power to overcome his habit. He looked to God and lived with a joy he never had previously known. But something happened. Family and social pressures were brought against him. He lowered his vision and gave way to his appetite. The smell of burning tobacco seduced him. I saw him some years later. We talked together of the old and better days he had known. And he, like Peter, wept bitterly. He blamed this and he blamed that, and, as he did so, I was inclined to repeat the words of Cassius—
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
(Julius Caesar, act 1, sc. 2, lines 140–41.)

Consider his micromanagement in the life of a dear friend of ours in St. Gallen, Switzerland. Despairing, lonely, and purposeless, she knelt in her room one spring afternoon in 1988 and cried out in anguish to her God that unless he showed her some reason and purpose for living, gave some indication that he heard her prayers, she saw no reason to live any longer and would take her own life. You mantics can guess the rest, for it is a classic instance of divine micromanagement that is repeated many times daily among the children of men. Scarcely twenty minutes later, Elders Albright and Gubler were at her door. Though they were weary after tracting for several hours without success, something in Sister Annalore’s face sparked that ineffable something called the Holy Spirit and led the elders to scuttle their standard door approach. Instead, Elder Albright said, “The Lord has sent us to tell you why you’re here on earth.” Stunned, Sister Annalore had just heard the very words of her prayer repeated in American accents. She invited the elders in and received all they taught her as a direct message from God. Startled into new awareness by the Holy Spirit, which rolled over her in waves of light, she caught in an instant the vision of the plan of God and of her role in the plan. It was as if she had always known these truths but had misplaced them momentarily. Instantly transformed, she was baptized the following week. She is currently a temple-going Young Women president in her ward, intent on keeping vital the presence of the Spirit in her life.

Miracles are brought about through fasting and sincere prayer. In 1850 Lorenzo Snow, who later became president of the Church, labored in Italy as a missionary, trying to open that country to the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. He was somewhat shy and self-conscious, but spiritually, he was a giant. One family who had befriended him had a critically ill child. In fact, Elder Snow realized that only through sincere fasting, mighty prayer, unswerving faith, and through the power of the priesthood could that three-year-old child be saved. He knew how much the healing of this boy would mean to the people in this small Italian village.
Climbing with his companion to a place of seclusion on the foothills of the Alps just above the village, in the spirit of fasting and prayer, he earnestly petitioned and pleaded with the Lord for six long, anxious hours for the privilege of using divine power to heal that little boy. Finally, the answer came; the reply was yes, he would be granted the privilege.
As a humble servant of the Lord, he walked down the mountainside with perfect faith that the dying child’s life would be spared. The boy was then given a blessing and a promise that he would live. A few hours later when Elder Snow and his companion returned to the home, they found that the child was greatly improved and was well on the way to recovery. Elder Snow realized that his fasting and prayer had reached the throne of a benevolent Heavenly Father. He remarked to the grateful parents: “The God of heaven has done this for you.” (See Eliza R. Snow, Biography of Lorenzo Snow, pp. 128–29.)

Much of my early testimony was formed through music. I adored bouncing up in “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam”. I popped along to “Popcorn Popping”. I could perform “Book of Mormon Stories” in my sleep. But it wasn’t just fun. I distinctly remember learning “Love Is Spoken Here”, and becoming emotional as we sang it in Primary. Music hadn’t affected me like that before—I didn’t understand how I could be crying whilst being happy. It wasn’t just the lyrics—the melody itself, the voices of all my friends—it shocked me.
I realised that these songs had power. As I’ve gotten older, I still often turn to these songs when I’m in need. The second verse of “How Firm A Foundation” has been my companion through any scary experience, even if it was just venturing downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water.
“Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed, / For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.”1
Singing these lines has always brought me comfort. I truly feel Heavenly Father’s presence in those moments. The effect wouldn’t be the same if I just spoke the words—the act of singing aloud, a musical prayer, brings me the most comfort.
As an adult, music still plays a part in my testimony. I was lucky enough to see a concert of Rob Gardner’s Lamb of God a few years ago, as my sister Lauren was part of the choir. Individual performers, a choir, and an orchestra come together to recount the Saviour’s last days on earth. In the song “Gethsemane”, a narrator tells of the Saviour entering the garden of Gethsemane. The choir sings in Aramaic as the music swells. Of course, the effect of this cannot be accurately portrayed in writing—it is absolutely beautiful and brought me to tears. Now, when I think of Him, suffering so much in that garden, I hear that music. He suffered for us, out of the purest love. It is beautiful and mournful, awe inspiring and heartbreaking. “Gethsemane” helped me tap into those emotions at a slightly deeper level, as I tried to empathise with what our dear Saviour went through.
Music is another tool we can use to help strengthen our faith. It helps us to understand things in a different way, and sometimes in a deeper way. I feel spiritually enriched when I am able to listen to such music—for a brief moment, I am able to truly cast other things aside and just reflect on the gospel. It’s a blessing that I often forget I can use.
In October 1936, President J. Reuben Clark stated “We get nearer to the Lord through music than perhaps through any other thing except prayer.”2
As I teach my daughter those same Primary hymns I enjoyed years ago, I am happy to know that they can be a guide and a comfort to her. They certainly have for me. I am truly grateful for all the ways Heavenly Father has provided to bring us closer to Him, and to feel His presence in our daily lives.

Bob’s family roots were in the West, and he went west to college at the University of Utah. He was a starting pitcher with the potential to be a Major League Baseball player. But overuse of his arm led to permanent injury.

That, however, proved providential, as it turned Bob’s attention to military service. He enlisted in the Air Force ROTC and became a jet fighter pilot. His unit’s motto was “Return with Honor.”

Though the work of flying fighter jets was glamorous, it was also dangerous. Bob risked severe injury when, on takeoff, his plane malfunctioned and caught on fire. His health was spared thanks to quick thinking and well-rehearsed practice. Bringing the plane to a hard stop, he jumped from the cockpit to the ground. His ankles likely would have been shattered had it not been for attending to a seemingly small precaution. Bob’s flight instructors had taught him and his fellow flyers the importance of tightly lacing up their nearly knee-high boots. As a result of honoring the seemingly small procedure, he was able to continue his service, rather than landing in the hospital and being transferred to a job on the ground.

Yet there was no rest, even for a downed pilot. While Bob was still sitting on the ground, strapped to his parachute and his plane burning nearby, his commanding officer pulled up in a jeep. Upon learning that Bob wasn’t seriously hurt, the commander said, “Hales, you fly again tomorrow.” And off he sped.

But less than a minute later, Bob saw the jeep turn back. Without smiling, his commander said, “Hales, you owe the Air Force a million dollars.”

But the call during the day or the knock at the door at night always comes as a surprise. Someone will say, “Please, could you come quickly?” Once, years ago, it was a father calling from a hospital. His three-year-old daughter had been thrown 50 feet (15 m) by a speeding car as she ran across the street to join her mother. When I arrived at the hospital, the father pled that the power of the priesthood would preserve her life. The doctors and the nurses only reluctantly let us reach through a plastic barrier to place a drop of oil on the one opening in the heavy bandages which covered her head. A doctor said to me, with irritation in his voice, “Hurry with whatever you are going to do. She is dying.”

He was wrong. She lived, and contrary to what the doctor had said, she not only lived, but she learned to walk again.

When the call came, I was ready. The preparation was far more than having consecrated oil close at hand. It must begin long before the crisis which requires priesthood power. Those who are prepared will be ready to answer.

Later in the book he presents a “condensed novel,” A Mormon Romance—Reginald Gloverson, in four chapters and eight pages. Reginald Gloverson, who has twenty wives, delivers a farewell speech to his family as he departs on a trip across the plains. In the speech he assures them that he will dream of his wives, of “you, Emily, with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with your hair so brightly, beautifully golden,” and on and on, concluding, less confidently, with Susan, “with your—with your—that is to say, Susan, with your—and the other thirteen of you, each so good and beautiful.” Of course, the wives answer in chorus. Reginald dies and the wives argue about who was his favorite and about which place each will have in the funeral procession. A decent two years later another elder comes to the home and, speaking to all collectively, proposes marriage to the twenty widows, who he will add to his present twenty-five wives. Ward becomes confused with the problem of tenses at the end and concludes that “writing Mormon romances is confusing to the intellect.”

Nathan held Mom’s hand tightly as they walked into the Primary room. Today was Nathan’s second week in the Sunbeam class. His stomach felt fluttery, and with each step, he walked a little more slowly.
Last week, Primary had been kind of confusing. During singing time, Mia kept standing up and turning around in circles. Nathan was tired of sitting, so he stood up too. But then his teacher asked him to sit back down. During sharing time, some of the older children talked and laughed. Sometimes it was too noisy to hear what Sister Miranda, the Primary president, was saying. When his friend Cara started crying, it made Nathan feel like crying too.
As he got closer to the front row, Nathan didn’t want to let go of Mom’s hand. He was worried that Primary would be confusing this week too. Then he saw his teacher.
“Hi, Nathan,” Sister Tejada said. “I’m glad to see you.” Sister Tejada patted the seat next to her.
Nathan liked his teacher’s friendly smile. He let go of Mom’s hand and sat down by Sister Tejada.
“I’ll be back to pick you up after class,” Mom said. “Remember to be reverent.”
Nathan wasn’t sure he knew how.
After the opening prayer, Sister Miranda stood up. “Today we have a special visitor,” she said.
Suddenly, a puppet appeared from behind a table next to Sister Miranda. The puppet wiggled, waved his arms, and said, “Is it time to go yet? I need a drink!”
Some of the children giggled.
“This is Arlo’s first time in Primary,” Sister Miranda said, “and he doesn’t know how to be reverent. But before he can be reverent, he needs to learn good Primary manners.”
Nathan was surprised. At dinner Mom sometimes reminded him to put his napkin on his lap. That was good manners. And Dad always asked everyone to thank Mom for the nice meal before they started clearing off the table. That was good manners too. But what were Primary manners?
Arlo leaned backward over the front of the table. “Hey, everybody looks funny upside down!” he said.
“Good manners are rules that show we respect other people,” Sister Miranda explained. “Arlo doesn’t know the rules for good Primary manners. Do you think we could teach him?” she asked.
Sister Miranda went to the chalkboard and drew an arm. “What should Arlo do with his arms?” she asked.
“Fold them!” Mia called out.
“That’s right,” Sister Miranda said.
Arlo sat up. He folded his arms and raised them over his head. “Oh, you mean like this?” he asked.
Nathan knew that wasn’t right.
Sister Miranda asked if everyone in Primary could show Arlo how to fold his arms.
Nathan quickly folded his arms. Arlo folded his arms too.
On the chalkboard, next to the drawing of the arm, Sister Miranda wrote, “Fold our arms.”
As Sister Miranda drew more pictures, the children taught Arlo the rules for good Primary manners. Nathan was glad that he knew most of them already.
Now Arlo wasn’t wiggling or waving his arms or calling out. His legs were still, and his arms were folded. The children were listening quietly too. Primary didn’t seem noisy and confusing anymore. Nathan felt calm and happy. It wouldn’t be too hard to be reverent in Primary. He already knew how.

John Conrad was not my best Scout. As a matter of fact, he was one of the biggest problems in the troop. Of the 20 boys in the Regina 35th Scout Troop, Saskatchewan, Canada, John was the one who could always be counted on to be where he wasn’t supposed to be, doing what he wasn’t supposed to be doing. But you couldn’t stay mad at the kid. He was just a skinny little 12-year-old with big teeth. He’d look up at you with those big brown eyes and say, “Sorry, Skip, it won’t happen again.”
We both knew that it would.
It was John who whacked himself on the top of the head with the flat of the ax on our first day of camp. It was John who tumbled head over heels from the top of a valley to the bottom, spreading all his camp gear in a trail to be picked up in the dark by others.
It was John who rescued me.
We were on our way to the biggest camp of the year. We had saved and worked for months so we could camp at my granddad’s farm in the mountains. Hiking, swimming, fossil hunting—anything we wanted to do, we could do.
It was a fairly long drive, so we drove during the early-morning hours to save as much daylight as possible for activities. About halfway there, John popped his head over the back of the front seat and said, “Skip, why are you inactive?”
I said, “What do you mean, inactive? I’m your deacons quorum adviser and your Scoutmaster!”
“Well, I never see you at sacrament meeting, so how can you say you’re active?”
Oddly enough, as penetrating as his questions were, I felt as though he really cared. He wasn’t being rude or sarcastic, just direct.
I mumbled something about how my nonmember wife wouldn’t understand about my being away all day Sunday. John said, “Well, you teach us that to be active, we need to go to all our meetings, so how can you say that you’re active when you don’t come to sacrament meeting?”
Before I could form a decent rebuttal, John was on to his next question. “Brother Spencer, do you pay your tithing?” All of a sudden Skip the Scoutmaster was gone and I was “Brother Spencer.” I felt like I was in front of the branch president for one of those personal interviews that I tried to avoid.
I once again tried to shift the blame onto my nonmember wife. “But how can you say that you are active if you don’t pay tithing and don’t come to sacrament meeting, Brother Spencer?”
“I guess I can’t,” I replied.
“Well, are you going to get active?”
What a question! It was four in the morning. I was tired, and this kid was asking me to commit to change my life. But how do you lie to a boy asking a sincere question? I couldn’t say yes and I couldn’t say no.
“I can’t make a commitment to you, John.”
“Well, will you think about it?”
“Yes, John, I will think about it.”
“Good, because I will ask you again.”
That boy ruined a perfectly good camping expedition. I couldn’t put the challenge out of my mind. When he and a friend set fire to Granddad’s pasture, I hardly even exploded. When they took down all the leaders’ tents during our mega-water fight, I didn’t bat an eye. Ten years of semiactivity weighed on my mind. For the first time in many years, I took a long and really hard look at myself.
At the end of the camp, I took John aside. I made a commitment to the Lord, with John as a witness, that I would start going to sacrament meeting the next Sunday. I committed to start paying tithing with my next paycheque. I told John that I could only do it with his help.
“I’ll help you, Skip,” he promised. And he did.
John befriended my wife and children. Each Sunday he would check on my progress. “I’m praying for you,” he told me. He was still a pest, but a loving one.
Four months after I made my commitment, John and I went together to get our patriarchal blessings. Four months after that, my wife was baptized. I performed the baptism and John was there. A year later, my wife and I were sealed in the Alberta Temple.
Whenever I look at myself and the changes in my life since the day John confronted me, I ask what would have happened to me and my family if he had been afraid to ask those questions. Then I thank my Heavenly Father for a 12-year-old Scout who had both courage and love.

Brian Taylor, a BYU guard who served in the Spain Seville Mission, will never forget or regret his decision to serve a mission. “I had the great opportunity to go out and open up a new island in the Canaries. I felt like the Apostle Paul. We’d walk down the street and people would ask, ‘What are you young guys doing in white shirts and ties? Why aren’t you down at the beach in your swimsuits?’ And they’d be impressed, and they’d listen to us, sometimes 150 people at once. We’d show movies like The First Vision and Families Are Forever on the sides of buildings, and the whole pueblo would come out to watch. We would then bear our testimonies, and the people would weep.”
Brian smiled and shook his head as he remembered, “There is just no comparison between that and playing basketball. You win a game for your team, you feel great, but the feeling only lasts that long.” Brian snapped his fingers. “But just as I talk about being on that island and bearing my testimony to that many people, it makes me feel like cheering again. You just feel good about it, and it never leaves you. It’s that eternal kind of feeling.”

With that kind of community spirit, it was no surprise when the Roberts Idaho Stake youth decided to forego their annual Church-sponsored harvest ball and organize a quilting bee with quilts going to war-ravaged Kosovo. But this was no ordinary stake youth project. The 350 quilters filling the adjacent school and church parking lots on September 14, 1999, included youth and adults from the Terreton Baptist Community Youth Group, the Catholic Church, the Lady Lions Club, and everyone else who wanted to come.
In addition to making 51 beautiful quilts, the participants were introduced to the Church humanitarian program with a film. “I wanted to tell the families in the film to come to my house,” said 15-year-old Kayla Smuin.
Kali Albertson, 15, agreed. “I was so happy to be able to help. It made me realize how lucky I am.”
The spirit of unity felt by everyone that evening will long be remembered. As one participant from the small town put it, “I wish we could do more things like this for the community.”

I would like to give you my own experience. While serving as president of the Calgary Stake in Alberta, Canada, I was attending the general conference in Salt Lake City in October, 1960. On Friday evening I received a call at the Hotel Utah, where I was staying, advising me that President McKay wanted to see me Saturday morning—the next morning. Naturally, not knowing what he wanted, I slept very little that night. I met him in his office at the appointed hour. As I sat in a chair facing him, he looked me in the eye, put his hand on my knee, and said, “President Tanner, the Lord would like you to accept a call as a General Authority, as an Assistant to the Twelve.” Then he asked how I felt about it.
I do not know exactly what I said. I tried to assure him that I felt highly honored and very inadequate, but ready and willing to accept a call and to give my whole time and effort in the service of the Lord.
That morning my name was read, along with the names of Elders Franklin D. Richards and Theodore M. Burton, to be sustained as Assistants to the Twelve, with the other general officers of the Church. We were approved by the conference. Officers throughout the Church are selected in much the same way at their particular level.
At this point I might answer the question of how we deal with a dissenting vote. We had one at the October 1977 conference. Some of you heard the proceedings and will remember that the dissenter wanted his vote recorded. This is the way we deal with a dissenting vote: all the people other than this one voted to sustain those who were presented, so I asked him to see a member of the Twelve. The purpose of asking him to see somebody is so that he can report why he was not prepared to support the slate of officers. That gives him an opportunity, if he knows some good reason why a person should not be or is not qualified to be sustained, to tell the person assigned to see him; this person can then advise the First Presidency.
I should like to tell you of an experience I had when I was called to go to New Zealand to reorganize a stake. I had never met anybody living in New Zealand, other than the president of the stake at that time. I asked for a list of the bishops and high council in that New Zealand stake, and as I read over the list I saw one name that just seemed to stand out. The name was Campbell. Each time I read the list I noticed it. Bishop Vandenberg was with me, and we interviewed all these people, after having prayed that we might be guided.
After all the interviews I said to Brother Vandenberg, “Let us call upon the Lord for direction.” We did, and as we stood up I asked, “If you had the responsibility, whom would you choose as president of this stake?”
He said, “Bill Campbell.” I had never mentioned his name to Bishop Vandenberg. This was another evidence that the Lord does direct these appointments.

Not very many years ago in a Maori village in New Zealand, a baby boy was born. He soon received a blessing from his grandfather who said in the blessing that this boy would one day become an educational leader among his people. Some of the men in the village laughed at that blessing; it seemed so unrealistic. That boy, Barney Wihongi, earned his doctorate and became president of the Church College of New Zealand. He became president of the Church College of New Zealand at age 35 and had influence among other educators in the country of New Zealand. The promises given to Brother Wihongi as a baby amused some. Brother Barney Wihongi inspired many!

The residents of “Condie’s Terrace” were well known to President Harold B. Lee, who presided over the Pioneer Stake during the early Depression years. President Lee took a special interest in Tom Monson. Among other things, he ordained him a high priest and set him apart as a counselor in the bishopric. Later Tom sought Elder Lee’s advice about his status in the Naval Reserve and about a long-sought commission as an ensign he had received. At first he questioned Brother Lee’s advice that he decline the commission and request a discharge from the Naval Reserve. Tom reasoned that while declining the commission presented no problem, his request for discharge might not be granted, given the increased tensions in the Orient. “Have more faith, Brother Monson,” said Elder Lee. “Your future is not with the military.” Tom followed the advice and was released from the Naval Reserve in the last group processed before the outbreak of the Korean War. Elder Monson’s love for Harold B. Lee was reflected in the naming of his first son, Thomas Lee Monson.