Gospel Story Finder

I began with President Faust’s cute and enduring love story. Now let me conclude with President and Sister Hinckley’s. He said at a CES fireside and then again just recently in the General Relief Society Meeting:
May I be personal for a moment? I sat at dinner across the table from my wife the other evening. It was fifty-five years ago that we were married in the Salt Lake Temple. The wondrous aura of young womanhood was upon her. She was beautiful, and I was bewitched. Now, for more than half a century, we have walked together though much of storm as well as sunshine. Today neither of us stands as tall as we once did. As I looked at her across the table, I noted a few wrinkles in her face and hands. But are they less beautiful than before? No, in fact, they are more so. Those wrinkles have a beauty of their own, and inherent in their very presence is something that speaks reassuringly of strength and integrity and a love that runs more deeply and quietly than ever before.[11]
For 66 years we have walked together, hand in hand, with love and encouragement, with appreciation and respect. It cannot be very long before one of us will step through the veil. I hope the other will follow soon. I just would not know how to get along without her, even on the other side and I would hope that she would not know how to get along without me.[12]
To me that sounds like the epitome of sanctified, fulfilling friendship and love.

One Sunday morning in early spring, nine-year-old Emily sat with her family in sacrament meeting. The bishop looked sad as he got up to make the announcements.
“The Schwartz family found out this week that Brother Schwartz has cancer,” the bishop said.
Emily saw that both her parents had tears in their eyes. Emily knew that cancer was a serious illness. She was sad for the Schwartz family too.
After church Emily was reading in the living room when she heard her parents talking about Brother Schwartz’s illness.
“He’s so young,” Mom said.
“I know.” Dad spoke softly. “His medicine and treatment will cost a lot of money. I wish there was something we could do to help.”
Emily looked out the window. The spring rains had made the neighborhood beautiful and green. The grass and flowers were growing fast. Seeing the yards all along the street gave Emily an idea. She ran to the kitchen to tell her parents.
“I want to help Brother Schwartz!” Emily said with a smile.
“What do you want to do, honey?” Mom asked.
Emily pointed out the window. “I want to mow our neighbors’ lawns and give the money to the Schwartzes.”
Dad smiled. “That’s a great idea, Em.”
That week Emily talked to lots of neighbors about mowing their lawns. By Saturday she had a full day of grass cutting lined up.
On Saturday, Emily pushed the mower up and down the yards in her neighborhood. All day. As she mowed, her arms and legs seemed to get heavier and heavier. But she was determined to keep going. She wanted to finish all the lawns.
It’s for Brother Schwartz, she kept telling herself. Her arms were sore from pushing, and her legs were tired and wobbly. But she kept mowing—only a few more lawns to go.
It was time for dinner when Emily finally finished. She walked home slowly. I’ve never been so tired in my whole life! she thought.
After dinner Emily walked to Brother Schwartz’s house. She was excited as she rang the doorbell.
Sister Schwartz opened the door.
“Hi, Sister Schwartz,” Emily said. “I mowed a bunch of lawns in the neighborhood and wanted to give you the money to help your family.”
Emily handed an envelope stuffed with money to Sister Schwartz.
Sister Schwartz started to cry. “Thank you, Emily,” she said.
“You’re welcome! I hope Brother Schwartz gets better.” Emily turned with a big smile and headed home.
She was tired from her hard work, but she felt warm and happy because she knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy when we help others. And now she just couldn’t stop grinning.

A returned missionary wrote recently:

Once I reached my mission, I was so caught up in trying to understand what missionaries did I hardly had time to dwell on my questions too much. But I was quite conscious, still, of not wanting to say I “knew” more than I felt I really knew. As time went on I had a number of experiences in which I saw the Spirit of the Lord actively working in the lives of a few investigators, members, and missionaries. After several months I found myself feeling more comfortable in acknowledging the reality of the Lord’s influence in my experience. I began learning that a testimony is a gradual, growing thing rather than a sudden yes-or-no kind of event. As time passed I could testify with more confidence that the gospel changes lives. Through all of this I never changed my conviction about being honest with myself. Then I discovered that because of that honesty, the affirming experiences I did have meant even more to me because I knew they were real.

I could literally trace my development through the verses in Alma 32, which became a source of great comfort and understanding for me. As Alma put it [verses 34–35]: “For ye know that the word hath swelled your souls, and ye also know that it hath sprouted up, that your understanding doth begin to be enlightened, and your mind doth begin to expand. O then, is not this real? I say unto you, Yea.”

This has been how my testimony has developed—one real step at a time. My testimony is based on real experiences. For me it has not been quickly gotten, nor based on a one-time clincher kind of experience—just piece by piece. But each piece is a true story, even if it may also have a little true preaching in it. Each piece is part of ultimate reality—an eternal circle. I feel I have learned, like Hamlet, that “I have that within which passeth show” (act 1, scene 2, line 84).

Sister Bednar and I are acquainted with a returned missionary who had dated a special young woman for a period of time. This young man cared for the young woman very much, and he was desirous of making his relationship with her more serious. He was considering and hoping for engagement and marriage. Now this relationship was developing during the time that President Hinckley counseled the Relief Society sisters and young women of the Church to wear only one earring in each ear.

The young man waited patiently over a period of time for the young woman to remove her extra earrings, but she did not take them out. This was a valuable piece of information for this young man, and he felt unsettled about her nonresponsiveness to a prophet’s pleading. For this and other reasons, he ultimately stopped dating the young woman, because he was looking for an eternal companion who had the courage to promptly and quietly obey the counsel of the prophet in all things and at all times. The young man was quick to observe that the young woman was not quick to observe.

Now before I continue, I presume that some of you might have difficulty with my last example. In fact, this particular illustration of the young man being quick to observe may even fan the flames of controversy on campus, resulting in letters of disagreement to the Daily Universe! You may believe the young man was too judgmental or that basing an eternally important decision, even in part, upon such a supposedly minor issue is silly or fanatical. Perhaps you are bothered because the example focuses upon a young woman who failed to respond to prophetic counsel instead of upon a young man. I simply invite you to consider and ponder the power of being quick to observe and what was actually observed in the case I just described. The issue was not earrings!

“Why should we even bother to put up the tree this year?” I muttered, pushing aside the packing boxes in the garage.
My sister, Mary, picked up a box of ornaments. “What’s Christmas without our tree?”
“What’s a Christmas tree without presents?” I countered.
Mary didn’t bother to answer. We all knew that the new house would be our only Christmas gift this year. Even the money we children would have spent on each other went into moving expenses. We lived on food storage and potatoes and looked forward to the raise Dad had been promised in January. We would each get a few small treats in our stockings but nothing under the tree.
When the tree was decorated, Mary and I stood back to admire our work. “I knew it would look great by that big window,” she said, smiling.
“There’s still a lot of empty space underneath it, though,” I pointed out gloomily.
I was still feeling gloomy as I prepared for bed that night. And to make matters worse, I couldn’t find my pajamas. Old and worn in the knees, they were nothing special to look at, but they were comfortable and warm, and I liked them. I looked in my dresser, under my bed, and in the hamper but couldn’t find them. Finally I gave up and put on a sweatsuit.
At school the next day, my new friend, Joan, was very excited. “Do you know what I want for Christmas this year?”
“What?” I asked without much enthusiasm.
“A new bike.”
“A new bike? What’s wrong with the one you have?” I had seen her bike. It had a bell on the handle and a big basket to carry her books in.
“It’s kind of bent from when I fell.” Joan frowned. “What’s wrong with you today, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.” Then I realized that nothing was exactly what was wrong with me. “I’m getting nothing for Christmas,” I explained.
“I’m sure you’ll get exactly what you want,” Joan said confidently.
When I came home from school that day, I was astonished to see a present under the tree. I blinked and looked closer, but it was still there. It was large and brightly wrapped—and it had my name on it!
I ran into the kitchen and found my mother looking through drawers and cupboards. “Mom,” I said breathlessly, “There’s a—” I stopped when I saw her troubled face.
“Have you seen my favorite paring knife?” she asked.
“The old one with the wooden handle? No.”
“I suppose I’ll have to use the newer knife,” Mom said with a sigh. “I like the old one because it fits my hand so well. I’ll be glad when I figure out a place for everything and everything stays in its place. By the way,” she continued, “did you know that there’s a present for you under the tree? I wonder where it came from.”
The next day at school, I told Joan about the present, and a girl named Barb overheard me. “Just one present?” she said. “There are dozens under our tree.”
Joan squeezed my hand and smiled. “I told you that you’d get exactly what you want,” she said.
A few days later, my brother, Mike, came home from ball practice looking discouraged.
“Hard practice?” Mom asked.
“No,” Mike said, “it isn’t that. I wanted to take my autographed basketball to show the team, and I couldn’t find it. I hope we didn’t lose it in the move.”
“I’m sure everything will show up when we finish unpacking the boxes,” Mom assured him.
I cheered up Mike by showing him the new present that had mysteriously appeared under the tree. This one had his name on it.
And so it went. Every few days another present appeared under the tree until there was something for everyone, even our dog. We could hardly wait for Christmas day to find out what was in those packages and who had given them to us.
Finally it was the last day of school before the holidays. My teacher was passing out candy canes, when Joan pulled me aside. “I got it!”
“Got what?”
“My new ten-speed. My parents hid something big in the attic, so it must be my bike.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You’re getting exactly what you want.”
“I hope so.” Joan suddenly looked worried. “Barb told me that she had a ten-speed once but didn’t like it very much. I think I’ll hang on to my old bike, just in case.”
On Christmas morning, my family hurried through breakfast. We could hardly wait to open our presents. We emptied our stockings first, oohing and aahing over each package of gum, candy bar, and dollar-store trinket. Each small gift was a lot more fun because of the large, bright packages still awaiting us.
When we had finished with our stockings and were seated around the tree, holding our mystery gifts, Dad gave the signal for the unwrapping to begin. Usually we took turns, but this time no one could wait. As I tore open the paper, I could hear cries of delight from all around.
“I’m so glad!” Mary said. “I really wanted this.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for this,” Mike said.
“This is perfect,” Dad said. “It’s just what I wanted.”
I opened my own gift box and glimpsed plaid flannel folded beneath tissue paper. Was it a new pair of pajamas to replace the pair I’d lost? I’d really like that. But as I lifted it from the box, I realized that it wasn’t a new pair of pajamas. It was something much better—my old pair!
I hugged the soft pajamas to me. I was so happy to see them again! Never before had I been so thrilled by a present.
“Who did this?” Mary asked.
I looked over and saw Mom smiling, her gift unopened on her lap. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” she said. “Did you all get exactly what you wanted this year?”
“You bet!” my brother said as he happily twirled his basketball on his finger.
“What did you get?” I asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Show us what you wanted for Christmas.”
Mom opened her box and held it out so that we could see what was inside.
“It’s empty.” Mike’s voice was sad. “You got nothing for Christmas.”
“Not really,” Mom said. “Because what I want most is what I already have.”
I felt the same way. I got nothing for Christmas—nothing new, that is. But I still got exactly what I wanted. And more. With a gift of nothing, my Mom taught me gratitude for everything I already had.
At lunch, after Dad and we three children searched and unpacked a zillion boxes, we gave Mom her old paring knife, wrapped in the biggest box we could find.

Margaret Judd Clawson (pictured at age 18)

“The night before we left, … Henry Ridgeley, came to bid me farewell,” wrote Margaret. “Under our trysting tree we each vowed eternal constancy—for four years, at least.”

Eternal constancy gets hard when there are several nice young men in your company. Soon Margaret, who was 17, was eying another boy.

“He used to say such lovely things to me—told me that I was beautiful and intelligent, and even went so far as to say that I was amiable, something I had never been accused of before. He told me that I was the only woman he ever loved and that we were just suited to each other. I began to believe him, and when he proposed, what could I say but ‘yes.’ Well, the course of true love did run smooth, at least until we got into the Valley. Then we had the usual lovers’ quarrel but not the usual making up. In a short time he let me know that another girl appreciated him, if I did not.”1

Augustina, Molly, and Eva were ancestors of Imro Wehl, who lives in Suriname. Imro, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is an enthusiast of family history and spends hours finding names to add to his family tree. He started to have dreams of his great-grandmother, Augustina, who appeared to be asking for help. He remembered that his mother, Sieglien Wehl-Biezen, had also dreamed of her mother, Augustina, years before requesting her to free her but didn’t understand what the dream meant. Imro realized he was the answer to his great-grandmother’s plea for help. As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, through the sealing power of the temple covenants for the dead, he could help her find the peace she had been waiting to receive.
Imro worked for years, gathering names of family members to add to his family tree. He strongly felt he was receiving help from ancestors on the other side of the veil. He received impressions that helped him eventually find over 90 individuals. Imro said it felt like miracles were happening repeatedly as he continued to find additional family members. Surprisingly, he even felt impressed to include the names of Augustina, Sieglien, Molly, and Eva’s former slave master, Edmund Desse, and his family. Imro said this showed him how deeply Augustina had forgiven him despite the suffering her family endured.
In September 2024, Imro and the Paramaribo Suriname District planned a 10-day temple trip to the Belém Brazil Temple. Over 20 members flew from their home country to Brazil with the names of family members ready to have their temple work done. They worked in the temple every day, all day long, except Sunday and Monday, to complete their work. They started with baptisms for the dead and finished by invoking the power of the sealing of couples to one another and the sealing of the sons and daughters to their parents. Imro enlisted the help of his fellow district members to complete the temple work for his family. Even the temple workers stayed late, after 10:00 p.m. at night, to help Imro and the group complete his work.
On September 21, 2024, Imro, Lusanne, and others from the Paramaribo Suriname District returned home with gratitude for the opportunity to attend the temple and for their shared memories. Imro witnessed ordinances completed for over 90 family members, including his great-grandmother, Augustina, his grandmother, Molly, his mother, Sieglien, and his great-aunt, Eva, as well as his father, brother, and son. It was a deeply emotional experience that strengthened his bond with his family, both past and present. In his testimony, Imro said, “The best time we can spend here on earth is in the temple with our Heavenly Father.”

Let me share a personal experience with you that has helped me understand this delivering power with new eyes. I call this my “scary scuba story.”
About 20 years ago, I decided to enroll in a series of scuba courses. Throughout my training, we practiced things like what to do if my mask filled with water, how to share air with another diver in need, and other similar types of scenarios. By the time I was finished, I was looking forward, with great anticipation, to trying it out on my own. So one day I decided that I was ready to explore the underwater world of Flaming Gorge Reservoir, in eastern Utah.
When I arrived at the lake, I found an isolated dock, where I started to “gear up.” I wriggled into my wetsuit and strapped my air tank to my buoyancy compensator device, or BCD for short. Now, the BCD is the dive vest that inflates with air to help keep one balanced in the water. Next, I slid on my dive fins and then pulled my mask over my face. Once dressed, I waddled my way to the edge of the dock, put my air regulator in my mouth, held my hand to my mask (just as I’ve seen it done in the movies), and then stepped off the dock.
As I began to swim towards the middle of the lake, I noticed that I was gradually sinking beneath the surface of the water, in spite of my best efforts to keep from doing so. As I continued to sink, the atmospheric pressure of the surrounding water also continued to increase with depth. Consequently, I began to sink at an accelerated rate, and I quickly found myself 10 feet deep! Then, before I even realized how fast I was sinking, I was suddenly 15 feet below the surface!
I found myself out of control and sinking deeper with every second into the dark, seemingly bottomless waters of that lake. I could literally watch the light disappearing around me as I fell through those dark waters, now at a depth of 20 feet below the surface!
“How could I stop this uncontrolled fall?” I wondered. Then I remembered something that I had learned from my training: If I borrowed air from the oxygen tank and placed it into the dive vest, or the BCD, the added air in the vest would compensate for the increased pressure of the surrounding waters and help keep me from falling deeper. However, when I tried this, nothing happened; I just keep sinking! Faster and faster, deeper and deeper I dropped—25 feet, 30 feet, 35 feet. I was in a full-blown panic when I finally landed hard on the bottom of that lake about 40 feet deep and surrounded by cold, dark, murky waters.
No matter how hard I pushed off the bottom and kicked my legs, straining and fighting to make it back to the surface, I continued to land back in the same place, four stories underwater, trapped and terrified. Over and over I tried to swim my way to the surface without success. After multiple attempts, and now exhausted, I realized that I needed to change my tactics if I were to escape those dark, cold waters.
I considered the idea of abandoning my scuba tank and my vest on the bottom of the lake, filling my lungs with one last deep breath, and then racing to the surface. I knew that this was extremely risky, but what other options did I have? Just before proceeding, I fortunately remembered learning about a condition called the “bends,” or decompression sickness. This condition can occur when a diver ascends too quickly to the surface, causing nitrogen bubbles to form and then expand in the body. The effects of this condition can result in severe pain, paralysis, or even death.
“I might be able to make it to the surface on one breath of air,” I told myself. But doing so without incurring some level of decompression sickness was very unlikely. No, there just had to be another way.
As my mind raced, I thought of a second option. “Maybe I could swim along the bottom of the lake until I reached the shoreline.” However, this too was risky as the water was so murky that I could hardly see one foot in front of me. And because of those dark muddy waters, I completely lost my sense of direction and had no idea which way to even start swimming. I could easily swim myself into a much worse predicament—farther from the shore and without any air in my dive tank. I felt trapped, confused, and afraid.
Brothers and sisters, what would you have done if you were in this situation?
Well, in that moment of panic, confusion, and terror, I did what you probably would have done right from the start—I prayed. In fact, it was really more of a cry than anything else. I literally knelt down, right there on the bottom of the lake floor, surrounded by the circling darkness of the muddy waters, and pled for deliverance. I expressed my deep regret and sorrow for choosing to dive alone. I explained to my Father in Heaven that I had done everything I could think of to get out of this predicament but continued to find myself in the same situation. I pled with Him to help me return back to the surface and back to the warmth and light of the sun that I so desperately craved.
When I was pouring out my heart, my mind reflected back to minutes earlier, when I was safely back on the shore. In my mind, I saw myself picking up rock after rock and filling my vest pockets completely full of those rocks. You see, shortly after I had arrived at the lake, I had realized that I had forgotten to bring my dive belt.
Now, those of you who have been diving know the quandary I was in. The weighted dive belt helps compensate for the added buoyancy of the wetsuit and the oxygen tank. Without the properly weighted dive belt, I would not be able to submerge underwater. So, in an attempt to counterfeit the proper weight and use of the dive belt, I loaded my pockets with rocks.
After the Spirit had helped me recognize my obvious error, I knew exactly what I needed to do in order to be delivered. Now, in a very calm manner, I took off my gloves, unzipped my vest pockets on my BCD, and began removing the rocks that I had placed therein. One by one, I removed each of those rocks. Once they were removed, I was then able to inflate my vest with air to its full capacity, and immediately I began to ascend up towards the light.
You see, the rocks were the problem. They were restricting the amount of air I could add to my vest. I can still clearly remember those feelings of fear, anxiety, and cold being replaced with feelings of warmth, safety, and comfort as I slowly ascended and then broke the surface of the water. Through prayer and by heeding the promptings of the Spirit, I was delivered from that terrifying situation.

Once in high school, Robert’s pitching slump caused the team to lose three games in a row, one to nothing. The headline in the school paper said “Hard Luck Hales Loses Again.” He took his uniform and went to tell his coach he was going to quit. When he got to the coach’s office, his coach said, “Do you know why you’re losing? Your pitching arm is tired at the end of the game because before the game, when you’re supposed to be warming up, you’re out there impressing everybody with your fastball and curveball. You probably pitch two or three innings doing that. Quit showing off, and you won’t wear out your arm.” Robert listened, and the next game he pitched a shutout. “That’s why you love a coach who will tell you what you need to hear,” says Elder Hales. “If you listen to your coach, you can avoid repeating your mistakes and have a better opportunity to achieve your goals. The Lord is like that, too. I don’t get tired of the chastening of the Lord or the Lord’s anointed.”

When Peggy told me her husband, John, after 31 years of marriage, was going to be baptized, I asked what had changed.

Peggy said, “John and I were studying the New Testament Come, Follow Me, and John asked about Church doctrine.”

Peggy said, “Let’s invite the missionaries.”

John said, “No missionaries—unless my friend can come.” Over 10 years, John’s ministering brother had become his trusted friend. (I thought, What if John’s ministering brother had stopped coming after one, two, or nine years?)

John listened. He read the Book of Mormon with real intent. When the missionaries invited John to be baptized, he said yes. Peggy said, “I fell off my chair and started to cry.”

John said, “I changed as I drew closer to the Lord.” Later, John and Peggy were sealed in the holy temple. Last December, John passed away at age 92. Peggy says, “John was always a good person, but he became different in a beautiful way after he was baptized.”

I loved my mission. But when I came back home to the Philippines, I faced lot of anxiety because of something I call “spiritual burnout.”
To me, spiritual burnout means feeling completely drained after giving all you can. This affected my life to the point where I would stay in my room all day because I was so exhausted.
As a returned missionary, I felt pressure from my family, friends, and community regarding my life decisions. I felt like the people around me had a lot of thoughts about the choices I was making and what I should be doing—it was overwhelming. I hid how I was feeling from everyone because I didn’t want to disappoint them.
Over time, the pressure became too much for me to bear.
Even though I felt this way, I was able to find peace as I turned to Heavenly Father for guidance. Here are three ways I did it:
The expectations of others made it hard for me to find the peace I needed to transition back to life at home as a returned missionary.
So I prayed about what direction I should take for my future and told Heavenly Father about the pressure I was feeling. As I worked to invite the Spirit into my life, I felt prompted to take a leap of faith and move to the United Arab Emirates to work. This inspiration was super unexpected, and a lot of people in my community were shocked when I followed this prompting.
I suddenly felt so much hope! I felt that through the Spirit, God was leading me in a direction that would bring me the healing I needed.
Learning to let go of expectations other people had for me and focusing on Heavenly Father’s guidance allowed me to move forward with hope and faith.
Moving to Dubai taught me the importance of being proactive. Whatever our circumstances, we can be proactive about making changes and seeking Christ wherever we may be.

Faith in Sage’s future wasn’t easy. During those first terrible days, Michael and Denise faced the agonizing possibility that Sage would die. “We mourned for the Sage we had known,” they say, “and then we faced the challenge of accepting the new Sage. Spiritually and emotionally, we were healed as she was healed.”
The support from fellow Saints and neighbors was a vital part of that healing. Ruth DeBuck stayed with Denise those first few nights in the hospital. They lay on separate beds pulled together, their heads touching, holding hands.
“We talked through the night, working through the nightmare,” Ruth says. “We talked about what it would mean if Sage died, and what it would mean if she lived. All a mother feels and wants for her daughter had been suddenly ripped away, and Denise had to deal with that loss. Those first few days, we had to let the old dreams go, then dream new dreams.”
Ruth has seen those dreams blossom. “We see Sage some time in the future being married in the temple,” she says. “Some young man, kind and pure, who can see through the physical to her spiritual beauty, is with her. We see her with children of her own, living a life in the gospel, taking the joy offered, living beyong the burn.”

Now I must tell a little of what happened there. You remember that was as far as I had promised to go with them. From the station there we were taken to the headquarters of the Mormon mission in Norway, at Osterhausgaten No. 27. While we were there, they held a meeting in that hall, and my parents wanted me to go into the meeting. But I wouldn’t go in. You remember I said before that I was bitter. There was a lady there who saw that I did not go in. She said, “If it was my boy, I would whip him till the blood ran down into the heels of his shoes.” I heard her say it, but I thought she would have to be a good runner to catch me for I was light on foot.

Now this is how they got me to go farther. They knew what I had said before I left home in Ringsaker, and my sister Agnete had said that if I didn’t go, she wouldn’t go any farther either. Father went out to a hat store and bought my brother Mathias and myself each a nice brown hat and gave them to us. He said nothing but looked sorrowful. When I saw my parents looked sorrowful, I remembered what I had read in the Bible: “Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God gavest thee.” I consented to go with them. Then they cheered up, and I have never regretted it.

Twelve-year-old William Moroni Palmer leaned against his mother’s arm. “Read the story about David and Goliath,” he said.
“I read that one to you yesterday.”
“Then how about Daniel and the lions?”
“You already know that by heart.”
“I know. But David and Daniel were so brave. I wish I was as brave as they were.”
“They were more than brave,” his mother said. “They also had great faith in the Lord. They knew He would help them.” She put her arm around her son. “Besides, you are as brave as they were. Every day you face a world of darkness, and every day you face it with a smile.”
William reached for the Bible his mother held, and she put it into his hand. He gently caressed the cover. “Oh, I wish I could read it!”
His mother tousled his hair. “You can read it in your mind,” she said, her voice growing firm. “Daniel 6:23.” [Dan. 6:23]
William sat up tall. “‘Then was the king exceeding glad for him, and commanded that they should take Daniel up out of the den. So Daniel was taken up out of the den, and no manner of hurt was found upon him, because he believed in his God.’”
“Very good,” his mother said. “Because you have memorized it, you can read it any time you’d like.”
Just then his father stepped into the room. “It’s official,” he reported. “Elder Heber C. Kimball is coming to the conference your mother and I will be attending in Ogden.”
“He’s in the First Presidency now!” His mother jumped to her feet and ran to the front door. “Hyrum,” she called to William’s brother, “come here, please. I have something wonderful to tell you!”
For the next several hours, William’s parents, his married brother and sister, and even nine-year-old Hyrum excitedly talked about the upcoming conference.
William only listened. Ever since he had learned that President Kimball was coming, a great shivery feeling had filled his heart. Did he truly have enough courage—and enough faith—to ask what he so desperately wanted to ask?
After a while, his mother returned to his side. “What is it, Son?” she asked. “Aren’t you excited too?”
William nodded. “Yes, but …” He swallowed hard. “Mother, would you ask President Kimball to come to our place after the conference and bless me so that I can see?”
His mother pulled him into her arms. “Dear William, do you believe that you can be healed?” she asked.
William thought of Daniel climbing out of the lions’ den. He pictured David swinging his slingshot above his head. “I know I can, Mama, if he will come and if the Lord wills it.”
“Then I will bring him. He gave me a blessing to heal me when I was dying in Nauvoo, and he promised that he’d shake hands with me in the west, so I’m sure that he will come.”
When conference day arrived that day in 1858, William’s father gathered his family for prayer. He prayed that he and his wife would have a safe journey, that all would be well at home, and that William would receive his sight, if it was God’s will. Then the boys’ parents left for the conference.
While they were gone, William spent most of his time in his parents’ room, praying. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he pleaded, “let President Kimball come.”
Finally, just as the warm afternoon air was beginning to cool, William heard the clickety-jingle of the family surrey. He ran to the front door and listened harder. The Apostle’s voice!
“Is this the boy you told me of?” President Kimball asked as he stepped through the door.
“It is,” his mother said. “But would you like to eat with us first?”
“This must come first. He has waited long enough.”
William’s father placed a chair in the middle of the room for William to sit on. Then he and President Kimball gave William a blessing.
“Open your eyes, Brother William,” President Kimball said, “and you shall see.”
William’s eyes flew open. He sat stunned for a moment, then jumped from his chair and ran out the door. “Oh! I can see! I can see! Oh, Mama, I can see!” Then he fell to the ground and hugged it.
How grateful he was that God had not only restored his sight but had also taught him that if he had faith in Him, all things were possible.

I have just returned from a visit where I welcomed into the world our newest little granddaughter, Elizabeth Claire Sandberg. She is perfect! I was awestruck, as I am each time a baby is born, with her fingers, toes, hair, beating heart, and her distinctive family characteristics—nose, chin, dimples. Her older brothers and sister were equally excited and fascinated by their tiny, perfect little sister. They seemed to sense a holiness in their home from the presence of a celestial spirit newly united with a pure physical body.
In the premortal realm we learned that the body was part of God’s great plan of happiness for us. As it states in the family proclamation: “Spirit sons and daughters knew and worshiped God as their Eternal Father and accepted His plan by which His children could obtain a physical body and gain earthly experience to progress toward perfection and ultimately realize his or her divine destiny as an heir of eternal life” (“The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Liahona, Oct. 2004, 49; Ensign, Nov. 1995, 102). In fact, we “shouted for joy” (Job 38:7) to be part of this plan.
Why were we so excited? We understood eternal truths about our bodies. We knew that our bodies would be in the image of God. We knew that our bodies would house our spirits. We also understood that our bodies would be subject to pain, illness, disabilities, and temptation. But we were willing, even eager, to accept these challenges because we knew that only with spirit and element inseparably connected could we progress to become like our Heavenly Father (see D&C 130:22) and “receive a fulness of joy” (D&C 93:33).
With the fulness of the gospel on the earth, we are again privileged to know these truths about the body. Joseph Smith taught: “We came to this earth that we might have a body and present it pure before God in the Celestial Kingdom. The great principle of happiness consists in having a body. The Devil has no body, and herein is his punishment” (The Words of Joseph Smith, ed. Andrew F. Ehat and Lyndon W. Cook [1980], 60).
Satan learned these same eternal truths about the body, and yet his punishment is that he does not have one. Therefore he tries to do everything he can to get us to abuse or misuse this precious gift. He has filled the world with lies and deceptions about the body. He tempts many to defile this great gift of the body through unchastity, immodesty, self-indulgence, and addictions. He seduces some to despise their bodies; others he tempts to worship their bodies. In either case, he entices the world to regard the body merely as an object. In the face of so many satanic falsehoods about the body, I want to raise my voice today in support of the sanctity of the body. I testify that the body is a gift to be treated with gratitude and respect.
The scriptures declare that the body is a temple. It was Jesus Himself who first compared His body to a temple (see John 2:21). Later Paul admonished the people of Corinth, a wicked city teeming with all manner of lasciviousness and indecency: “Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are” (1 Cor. 3:16–17).
What would happen if we truly treated our bodies as temples? The result would be a dramatic increase in chastity, modesty, observance of the Word of Wisdom, and a similar decrease in the problems of pornography and abuse, for we would regard the body, like the temple, as a sacred sanctuary of the Spirit. Just as no unclean thing may enter the temple, we would be vigilant to keep impurity of any sort from entering the temple of our bodies.
Likewise, we would keep the outside of our bodily temples looking clean and beautiful to reflect the sacred and holy nature of what is inside, just as the Church does with its temples. We should dress and act in ways that reflect the sacred spirit inside us.
A short while ago as I visited one of the great tourist-filled cities of the world, I felt an overwhelming sadness that so many people in the world had fallen prey to Satan’s deception that our bodies are merely objects to be flaunted and displayed openly. Imagine the contrast and my joy when I entered a classroom of modestly and appropriately dressed young women whose countenances glowed with goodness. I thought, “Here are eight beautiful girls who know how to show respect for their bodies and who know why they are doing it.” In For the Strength of Youth it says: “Your body is God’s sacred creation. Respect it as a gift from God, and do not defile it in any way. Through your dress and appearance, you can show the Lord that you know how precious your body is. … The way you dress is a reflection of what you are on the inside” ([2001], 14–15).
Modesty is more than a matter of avoiding revealing attire. It describes not only the altitude of hemlines and necklines but the attitude of our hearts. The word modesty means “measured.” It is related to moderate. It implies “decency, and propriety … in thought, language, dress, and behavior” (in Daniel H. Ludlow, ed., Encyclopedia of Mormonism, 5 vols. [1992], 2:932).
Moderation and appropriateness should govern all of our physical desires. A loving Heavenly Father has given us physical beauties and pleasures “both to please the eye and to gladden the heart” (D&C 59:18), but with this caution: that they are “made to be used, with judgment, not to excess, neither by extortion” (D&C 59:20). My husband used this scripture to teach our children about the law of chastity. He said that the “word extortion … literally means to ‘twist out [or against].’ Our use of … the body must not be twisted [against] the divinely ordained purposes for which [it was] given. Physical pleasure is good in its proper time and place, but even then it must not become our god” (John S. Tanner, “The Body as a Blessing,” Ensign, July 1993, 10).
The pleasures of the body can become an obsession for some; so too can the attention we give to our outward appearance. Sometimes there is a selfish excess of exercising, dieting, makeovers, and spending money on the latest fashions (see Alma 1:27).
I am troubled by the practice of extreme makeovers. Happiness comes from accepting the bodies we have been given as divine gifts and enhancing our natural attributes, not from remaking our bodies after the image of the world. The Lord wants us to be made over—but in His image, not in the image of the world, by receiving His image in our countenances (see Alma 5:14, 19).
I remember well the insecurities I felt as a teenager with a bad case of acne. I tried to care for my skin properly. My parents helped me get medical attention. For years I even went without eating chocolate and all the greasy fast foods around which teens often socialize, but with no obvious healing consequences. It was difficult for me at that time to fully appreciate this body which was giving me so much grief. But my good mother taught me a higher law. Over and over she said to me, “You must do everything you can to make your appearance pleasing, but the minute you walk out the door, forget yourself and start concentrating on others.”
There it was. She was teaching me the Christlike principle of selflessness. Charity, or the pure love of Christ, “envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own” (Moro. 7:45). When we become other-oriented, or selfless, we develop an inner beauty of spirit that glows in our outward appearance. This is how we make ourselves in the Lord’s image rather than the world’s and receive His image in our countenances. President Hinckley spoke of this very kind of beauty that comes as we learn to respect body, mind, and spirit. He said:
“Of all the creations of the Almighty, there is none more beautiful, none more inspiring than a lovely daughter of God who walks in virtue with an understanding of why she should do so, who honors and respects her body as a thing sacred and divine, who cultivates her mind and constantly enlarges the horizon of her understanding, who nurtures her spirit with everlasting truth” (“Understanding Our Divine Nature,” Liahona, Feb. 2002, 24; “Our Responsibility to Our Young Women,” Ensign, Sept. 1988, 11).
Oh, how I pray that all men and women will seek the beauty praised by the prophet—beauty of body, mind, and spirit!
The restored gospel teaches that there is an intimate link between body, mind, and spirit. In the Word of Wisdom, for example, the spiritual and physical are intertwined. When we follow the Lord’s law of health for our bodies, we are also promised wisdom to our spirits and knowledge to our minds (see D&C 89:19–21). The spiritual and physical truly are linked.
I remember an incident in my home growing up when my mother’s sensitive spirit was affected by a physical indulgence. She had experimented with a new sweet roll recipe. They were big and rich and yummy—and very filling. Even my teenage brothers couldn’t eat more than one. That night at family prayer my father called upon Mom to pray. She buried her head and didn’t respond. He gently prodded her, “Is something wrong?” Finally she said, “I don’t feel very spiritual tonight. I just ate three of those rich sweet rolls.” I suppose that many of us have similarly offended our spirits at times by physical indulgences. Especially substances forbidden in the Word of Wisdom have a harmful effect on our bodies and a numbing influence on our spiritual sensitivities. None of us can ignore this connection of our spirits and bodies.
These sacred bodies, for which we are so grateful, suffer from natural limitations. Some people are born with disabilities, and some suffer the pains of disease throughout their lives. All of us as we age experience our bodies gradually beginning to fail. When this happens, we long for the day when our bodies will be healed and whole. We look forward to the Resurrection that Jesus Christ made possible, when “the soul shall be restored to the body, and the body to the soul; yea, and every limb and joint shall be restored to its body; yea, even a hair of the head shall not be lost; but all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame” (Alma 40:23). I know that through Christ we can experience a fulness of joy that is available only when spirit and element are inseparably connected (see D&C 93:33).
Our bodies are our temples. We are not less but more like Heavenly Father because we are embodied. I testify that we are His children, made in His image, with the potential to become like Him. Let us treat this divine gift of the body with great care. Someday, if we are worthy, we shall receive a perfected, glorious body—pure and clean like my new little granddaughter, only inseparably bound to the spirit. And we shall shout for joy (see Job 38:7) to receive this gift again for which we have longed (see D&C 138:50). May we respect the sanctity of the body during mortality so that the Lord may sanctify and exalt it for eternity. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I met my wife, Pamela, she was the only member of the Church in her family. When we decided to get married, something seemed an obstacle. I had no money to get all the items listed by her father as requirements for her bride price.
I was a graduate with no job. The little I made from odd jobs here and there was barely enough. I lived in my Father’s house at the time. Faced with these challenges, Pamela and I fasted and prayed to Heavenly Father for help. I knew the Lord through His prophets and apostles have counseled that “young people should follow the Lord’s pattern of marriage in the temple without waiting for the payment of a bride price” (Dallin H. Oaks, “The Gospel Culture, Ensign, March 2012, 45). But Pamela’s father was not a member of the Church and saw this practice as proper traditional rites for marriage. After counseling with the Bishop, I decided to make a move. I love Pamela and wanted to obey the Lord’s commandment to marry in the temple. But I did not want to do that without the consent of her parents.
After a difficult and trying period, with the help of other, I began to get offers to paint buildings. After three painting jobs, I gathered the little I had, called on my family and travelled to Pamela’s village. Still, things seemed difficult and the marriage seemed impossible. Despair, melancholy and anger almost took over my faith, but the encouraging words of the leaders and the scriptures kept me focused and continue to trust in the Lord.
We were married traditionally on 13 February, 2016, wedded on 2 April and Sealed in Aba Nigeria Temple on 5 April in the same year. It felt like a dream to us. The Lord raised people who offered to help us with one thing or the other. The Lord literally made it happen. That experience is etched in our memories as one the many of the Lord’s miracles in our lives, a manifestation of His tender mercies towards us.
We have been joyfully married for almost three years now in the mercies of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Stringy orange chunks went skittering across the road. Nothing was left of the carefully-carved pumpkin face except a lonely candle stuck in the pulpy mess near my feet.
“C’mon, throw yours,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Do it!” Jeff urged.
Kevin pushed my shoulder. “Hurry up! Smash it, and let’s get out of here.”
My friends stood in a circle around me. The pumpkin felt smooth and cold in my hands. It was heavy, even though the stringy insides had been pulled out and holes carved for a silly face. I remembered how long it had taken me to clean and carve my own pumpkin at home, scooping out the slippery seeds and carefully slicing out sections for its eyes, nose, and mouth.
But this pumpkin wasn’t mine. I had grabbed it off a porch tonight after trick-or-treating, then waited impatiently for house lights to blink off one by one. It wasn’t my idea to smash the pumpkins, but my friends said it was great fun. They had each swiped one too.
“Everyone does it,” Mike had said. “It’s a Halloween tradition. Nobody can see you—it’s too dark out. Just hold the pumpkin up as high as you can and smash it on the road.”
“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Kevin added. “It’s just an old pumpkin. It’ll be rotten soon anyway.”
They were right. It was great fun. My pumpkin-smashing sent chunks flying farther than anyone else’s. I laughed out loud when some gooey pieces splatted on Jeff’s pant legs. Jeff pushed me backward into some pumpkin mess on the road. Mike grabbed a pumpkin chunk and plopped it on top of Jeff’s costume wig. Soon pumpkin pieces were flying everywhere.
A porch light switched on suddenly, and a man’s voice growled from the lit doorway. “Hey you boys! What’s going on out there?”
A small figure in pajamas, clutching a teddy bear, stood by the man’s side. “Daddy, where’s my pumpkin?” asked a tiny voice. “Did the boys break my pumpkin?”
We raced through neighborhood yards until we were safely out of sight, finally crouching behind shrubs to see if anyone was following us. “Watch out! Over there!” But it was only a tree shadow stretching its long black body over the ground toward us. The wind moaned and sighed. Clawlike branches scratched unearthly noises against rooftops. I gulped deep breaths of cold night air and tried to steady my trembling legs. This was scary—but exciting too!
We listened for police sirens or neighbors yelling for us to come out. A dog howled faintly in the distance. An airplane droned in the dark overhead. But there were no footsteps, no searching flashlights, no angry voices. We were safe. We laughed, patting each other on the back. This had been easy!
But something followed me as I walked home. Something invisible wrapped its long, icy fingers around my head and invaded my ears. It was sneakier and more chilling than any make-believe Halloween ghost.
It was a tiny voice crying over a pumpkin—the one I had smashed.
The voice chased me all the way back to my house. I quietly climbed the front steps and sat down in the dark shadows. My own pumpkin scowled at me from the porch railing as if it knew that I had smashed one of its relatives. For fun. Because “everyone did it.”
The front door opened, and Dad poked his head outside, whistling for our dog. “Hey, kiddo, did you have a good time trick-or-treating? Did you get any candy for your old dad?”
I handed him my bag full of treats. “Here. Take what you want. I’m not hungry.”
Dad sat down beside me. He pulled a sucker out of the bag, unwrapped it, and pointed it at my pumpkin on the railing. “You know, Son, in a way you’re a little bit like that pumpkin over there.”
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “I have an empty space where my brains should be.”
Dad rolled the sucker over his tongue. “There’s nothing wrong with your brain—when you use it,” he said, picking at some pumpkin goo still clinging to my pants. “I meant that there’s a ‘candle’ inside you, too—a bright spark that lights up your face and makes you who you are. It’s a pure, clear, beautiful light that’s inside every person. Maybe it shines a little less when they do something they’re ashamed of, but it never goes out completely.” He gently turned my face toward his. “Your light looks a little dim tonight.”
“It’s a wonder it didn’t go out like a smashed pumpkin,” I said. “A broken pumpkin just lying in the road, waiting for a car to run over it. A pumpkin that didn’t even belong to me.”
I stood up and walked over to the railing. My hands circled the perfectly-decorated pumpkin that had taken me a whole hour to clean and carve. I picked it up and started down the front steps.
“Where are you going?” Dad asked.
I turned to face him. “A little voice is calling me,” I choked out.
Dad studied his sucker. “A voice?”
“Of a little boy in pajamas.”
Dad smiled. “Follow that voice,” he said. “Your light is getting brighter every second.”

A few years ago while we were serving in the mission field, a minister who was investigating the Church said, “I hear you talk about the benefit of a living prophet. What sort of pronouncements has he made lately?” We replied, “The prophet has taught us that we need to live frugally. We need to stay out of debt, fix up our homes, and plant gardens that we may enjoy the fruit of our labor.” The minister thought for a moment and then said, “That is not what I would have imagined a prophet to say, but as I consider it, what better advice could be given?”

Then he recalled the words of President Mohamed Siyad Barre. He had told the students before they were sent out to participate in this literacy campaign, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn).”

Haroon had been sure he had much to teach the nomads. He was eager to take the skills of reading and writing the Somali language to the nomads who made up over 70 percent of the Somali people.

In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.

Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.

“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is also a box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. llaah ha ku barakadeya. (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”

Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.

Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignored him.

Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And what do you know?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”

After they parted, Haroon reflected on Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro.”

That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.

Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”

But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.

Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.

One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.

Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”

He became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.

Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.

The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.

It was a dry year when Mona and George Dunn decided to grow sugarcane on their farm near Lautoka. After six weeks without rain, the Dunns and the contractor whom they had hired to plant their crop feared that the seedlings would not survive. Brother and Sister Dunn and their sons fasted and prayed. As they returned from church the next Sunday, they met the contractor. “You are very blessed,” he said. “It has rained just enough to keep your cane alive.”
Later, when their water tank had nearly run dry, the Dunns again prayed for rain. As they sat on their veranda a few nights afterward, they saw a patch of clouds. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if it poured right now?” said Sister Dunn.
“It will,” replied her husband.
And it did. The storm filled their tank to overflowing—but did not wet the road leading to their home.