Gospel Story Finder

Merrill saw Kathy and her friends after his mother made the comment she did about Christmas. It was bad enough seeing Kathy at all. But if a different set of mind wheels hadn’t been reluctantly pushed into a slow, rusty motion, it would have been more than bad—devastating in fact. He knew this and was glad he had let his resentments out of their tight bindings. They were still there, but, like so many helium balloons, they now tugged gently from a less painful position.
“Wipe Bobby’s mouth,” he heard his mother say, and for perhaps the millionth time in his 16 years, he automatically pulled out the big piece of flannel tucked in the back of the wheelchair and bent to soak up the drool from the grotesque, twisted face of his brother.
“He’s too excited,” his mother rationalized. “It’s so beautiful and magic-like. I knew we had to make the effort to bring him here.”
Bobby thrashed his useless arms. The red-knitted, thumbless mittens Sister Arnold had made hid the twisted bones that should have been workable fingers, but weren’t. A cruel accident at birth or before had ruined the control system for his muscles, and an intelligent spirit was imprisoned in a physical body that jerked spastically and made communication with the outside world a tortured affair at best. Sometimes, like tonight, the effort became too much, and he could accomplish nothing but a ridiculous flailing about, accompanied by unintelligible, animal-like sounds. Merrill knew the sight was distressing to anyone unfamiliar with the situation.
And all this Kathy and the others saw. There had been the usual giggling comments and the quick exodus away from the ugly and unpleasant.
Merrill shuddered and bent his arms around his brother. “Hold on there, buddy,” he whispered. This was a familiar reenactment of a familiar routine, one which was usually successful in calming the worst of the unwanted movements.
He stood that way, quiet, between the Tabernacle and the visitors’ center and let the below-freezing air pool around him. The millions of tiny lights pricked the starry night and caused it to back up and hover just beyond the thick, gray walls. It hung there, its own distant light spectacle forgotten as human attention was trapped in the canopy of electric glow. Temple Square at Christmas was spectacular to see, no doubt about it. It was more than even Merrill expected. He could imagine Bobby’s rapture.
Merrill felt something swell in the lonely part of him. It tangled with those feelings that had been dominant for a long time, those feelings of resentment because his life seemed destined to be circled by people, like Bobby, who could never bring opportunities his way.
He loved his mother but knew she, too, would never introduce him to the kind of people he longed to know. His mother’s life centered around Bobby, with her job in the evenings at the library only a necessary part of her circumstance. To expect another man to be big enough to tolerate the presence of a severely handicapped son would never occur to her—not after the boys’ own father couldn’t take it, and an accident in the oil fields ended his life before he had time for a change of heart, and before she was convinced it could be possible.
Between him and his mother the care of Bobby was divided. It held them both out of the reach of opportunities, at least that was the way Merrill saw it, and not without this awful resentment pulling his young features into a perpetual scowl. Tonight his mother had been objecting to that scowl when she said, “But Merrill, Christmas isn’t just for the whole and the beautiful.”
Maybe it was the million lights winking all around him, but for some reason he had been touched with a corner of what she said—just nudged enough to make his resentments back off a little. It was good to get some relief from the anger.
He thought about Jesus. How he had been subject to an imperfect world. A world where he had to deal with terrible things like leprosy and every kind of human misery.
Then he had seen the kids from school. Had he known they would be here, the group he secretly longed to be part of, had he known that, no way would he have consented to come.
Beautiful, blond Kathy. New at school this year, she sat by him in algebra and made his life painful. Each day he both dreaded and longed for the hour. Always he was too shy and couldn’t say anything but answer the few questions she sometimes asked. He always came to class boned up on the day’s assignment in case she did need help. She was one of the leaders in the straight crowd—the fun, respectable group. The ones who didn’t need cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol to give them confidence.
Now that Kathy knew he didn’t have a normal kind of family, would she ever ask his help again? He looked up at the likeness of Jesus looking down from the window of the visitors’ center and reminded himself that even though the eyes seemed to be looking directly down at them, it was just made of stone.
The Nauvoo Bell struck the hour, rolling the clear sounds through the cold air and causing a small vibration to answer back from deep inside where resignation grows. He straightened up and sighed, repositioning Bobby’s bright, red-knit hat. Oh well, it had happened. She had seen them. Might as well get this night over with.
Bobby quickly became frantic again. “Oh, he’s going to hurt himself,” his mother cried. “Can’t you do something?”
He tried, but it was too awkward pushing the wheelchair and keeping his arms around the struggling form at the same time.
“He wants to go in the visitors’ center. I know that’s what he’s trying to tell us,” his mother insisted. She was usually right in guessing what Bobby wanted. Watching his brother jerk his body and bang his head around made Merrill also think Bobby would end up hurting himself and make their holiday that much more difficult.
“Okay. I’m going to carry him,” he told his mother, after looking all around to be sure Kathy and her group had gone. “Here, help strap him on. You know, like we used to.”
Though Bobby was ten years old, he only weighed 60 pounds. Merrill opened his coat, picked him up and waited while his mother arranged the wild arms and legs inside the coat, all the time muttering soft, silly endearments. Then she used the straps from the chair to bind the two boys tightly together. Soon the jerking subsided, and Merrill relaxed the pressure that held Bobby’s face pressed into his shoulder. It was like strength from the one went into the other and brought control. “Don’t talk,” Merrill kept saying. “We know how you feel. Relax, I’ll take you in there.”
“You’re so wonderful when you’re like this,” his mother said. Now she was wiping something besides Bobby’s drooling. Merrill was surprised at her tears.
“Oh, come on, Mom. I’ve carried him around a lot like this.”
“I know, I know. But it’s been a long time.”
Yes, it had. Merrill was glad to welcome back the love he used to feel for his brother. It made him walk taller.
As they climbed the ramp to the second floor, music from some hidden source was playing, “We three kings of Orient are; Bearing gifts we traverse afar.” Merrill felt like asking Jesus how he would like what he was carrying. The thought held some of the old resentment. He stood angled so Bobby could see the Christus over his shoulder without raising his uncontrollable head. The view from the window, with Christmas declaring itself so dramatically, let a thought materialize. It gathered in small waves to gradually push into his mind and be recognized. He smiled as it put itself together. “Yes, Jesus would like the gift he carried. Locked up like this, Bobby was a spirit pure in heart and innocent. Oh yes, Jesus would like that.”
The music changed to “Silent Night,” and he turned to let Bobby see the lights out of the window. Then he saw her. Kathy, standing alone in the hall to the left. It seemed she had been watching, for now she smiled and moved toward them. Merrill watched her approach, too stunned to move. His heart raced, and he increased the pressure on Bobby’s head so hard he cried out.
“Merrill?” said the soft voice, and Merrill felt as if he were connected to a million little hot lights flashing at odd intervals. His face burned, and he wanted to run.
She acted like she didn’t notice. “Merrill,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I saw you here. I wanted to invite you to a Christmas party tomorrow night. Just a fun, game-playing time at my house with the gang—no big deal. I promise no algebra.”
Merrill knew his voice would crack and cleared his throat before trying to answer. Then he couldn’t put together anything sensible.
“I … gee … sure … sounds okay.” He felt stupid for not introducing his mother, for Kathy turned and asked, “Is this your mother?”
He tried to gather his wits and made the introductions.
“I know this is your brother,” she said, smiling with eyes that glistened with something that reflected the tiny lights. “The kids told me.” Then she turned to leave but paused with one hand on the railing. “Hey, you know, you holding your brother like that is the most Christmasy thing I’ve ever seen.” Then she hurried down the ramp.

Less than a year into my career, I was assigned to a project team led by John. John liked to get a jump start on the week with a four-hour team meeting every Sunday afternoon. This made me extremely uncomfortable, but as a new associate, I was afraid to push back.

A month or so into the project, the managing partner asked me to come to his office. He inquired as to how I was settling in.

I gathered my courage and told him: “I love the work; I will labor sixteen hours a day Monday to Friday when required, but Christy and I prioritize our family. We really need Saturday for our children’s sports and Sunday to be with God and our family.”

I then said, “If this is not acceptable, I am happy to pursue other employment.”

He simply responded, “I will talk to John.”

The Sunday meetings ended, and I stayed with this firm for my entire career.

A time may come in your future when you will need to decide about your peculiar Sabbath-day sign to God. I testify that keeping the Sabbath day holy really can be a delight and a joyful respite from the cares of the world.

When Thierry was called to serve a mission in the Cote D’Ivoire Abidjan Mission he had never read the Book of Mormon. His bishop encouraged him to read it cover to cover before commencing his mission. For three months, Thierry went every day to his ward building to read, ponder and pray about the Book of Mormon. This experience of daily study resulted in his taking into his mission a strong testimony of the book. He has said, “the greatest tool that we have to bring people to the light of the gospel and gather scattered Israel is the Book of Mormon.”

My dear brethren, I am both humbled and honored to occupy this position. For reasons obvious to you, it never entered my mind that such a calling would come to me. One year ago when I was sustained, President Hinckley made it clear to the entire Church that he had not initiated the process that resulted in my call. I told him later that I was likely the only General Authority in the history of the Church to be sustained by the members in spite of a disclaimer by the prophet!
Nevertheless, I am grateful for your sustaining vote and pledge my whole heart to this great cause. I am grateful beyond expression for my family, for my wife and children, and for my good parents. My mother passed away two years ago, just two days after April conference. She was small in stature, yet I stand on her shoulders every day. Her influence will ever be with me. I cannot honor her properly by what I say but only by how I live.
I do not know what to say of my father that would not embarrass him, except that I love him and that I sustain him. At the risk of being too personal, I will say that as I watch him grow older, my mind goes back to days when we were little children, when he would lie on the floor and wrestle and play with us and lift us in his arms and hug us and tickle us, or pull us up into bed with Mother and him when we were sick or frightened in the night. My memories of him will ever be of laughter and love, of steadiness, of testimony, of relentless hard work, of faith and fidelity. He is kind and wise, and I am blessed beyond measure that I not only sustain him as my prophet for this season of mortality but that I also claim him as my father now and throughout all eternity.
Several weeks ago my mind was stimulated when Elder Douglas L. Callister of the Seventy was asked to give a brief history of his grandfather LeGrand Richards in a quorum meeting. Among other interesting things he reported was this: When Elder Richards was a young bishop, he visited those who were less active. He boldly invited them to speak in sacrament meeting to the subject “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Remarkably, several of them responded positively, and that experience put them on the road back to full activity in the Church.
I would like to speak to that same theme this evening. I invite each of you, young or old, to dedicate a small notebook to this theme. Write at the top of the first page the words “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Then briefly list those things that come to mind. Over time, additional thoughts will come, which you can add to your list. Soon you will have a growing booklet that will fill you with gratitude and appreciation for your membership in the Lord’s Church. It may even provide a resource for talks you may be asked to give in the future.
My list is already long, and I have selected just a single item from it to discuss this evening. I must save other topics for another place and time.
I will speak briefly of the principle of repentance. How grateful I am for the understanding we have of this great principle. It is not a harsh principle, as I thought when I was a boy. It is kind and merciful. The Hebrew root of the word means, simply, “to turn,” or to return, to God. Jehovah pled with the children of Israel: “Return … and I will not cause mine anger to fall upon you: for I am merciful … and I will not keep anger for ever. Only acknowledge thine iniquity, that thou hast transgressed against the Lord thy God.”
When we acknowledge our sins, confess them and forsake them, and turn to God, He will forgive us.
While I was serving as mission president recently, two of our elders asked if I would meet with an investigator who was scheduled for baptism the following day. She had some questions they were unable to answer. We drove to her home, where I met a young widow in her late 20s with a child. Her husband had been killed in a tragic accident a few years earlier. Her questions were thoughtful, and she was receptive. After these were resolved, I asked if she had any other concerns. She indicated that she did and that she wanted to speak with me alone. I asked the elders to step outside and stand on the lawn where they could see us clearly through a large window. As soon as the door closed behind them, she began to weep. She recounted her years alone, filled with heartache and loneliness. During those years she had made some serious mistakes. She had known better, she said, but had lacked the strength to choose the right path until she had met our missionaries. During the weeks they taught her, she had pled with the Lord to forgive her. She sought assurance from me that through her repentance and through the ordinances of baptism and the receipt of the Holy Ghost, she could be cleansed and become worthy of membership in the Church. I taught her from the scriptures and bore testimony of the principle of repentance and of the Atonement.
The next day my wife and I attended her baptism and that of her little girl. The room was filled with friends from her ward, ready and anxious to stand by her as a new member of the Church. As we left that service, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude for the magnificent principle of repentance and for the Atonement that makes it possible, for the miracle of conversion, for this great Church and its members, and for our missionaries.
What does my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints mean to me? It means everything. It influences, enlivens, permeates, and gives purpose and meaning to everything in life that is important to me: my relationship with God, my Eternal Father, and with His Holy Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. It teaches me that through obedience to the principles and ordinances of the gospel, I will find peace and happiness in this life and be invited to live in God’s presence, with my family, in the life that surely will follow mortality, where His mercy will satisfy the demands of justice and encircle me and mine, and you and yours, in the arms of safety. I so testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Consider the story of Ximena Martinez. A few years ago, Ximena, her sister Micaela, and her brother Gonzalo were living with their divorced mother in Buenos Aires. Ximena was 15 at the time. She had been assigned the responsibility of taking care of the yard, “but I had neglected it,” she explains. “Daniel Garrido, a nice neighbor who lived across the street, offered to help. A few days later he came, accompanied by full-time missionaries. They worked hard and made everything look beautiful. But this was only the beginning. Daniel and his wife, Elisabet, continued to be faithful friends, and the missionaries offered to teach us about the restoration of the gospel. How could we say no?”
That was the beginning of a journey to understanding. After studying with the missionaries, Ximena’s mother was baptized. The children soon followed her example. “I decided to change my life, to have the kind of freedom only Christ can give,” Ximena continues. “More and more, I wanted to live the gospel. But there was something missing—we needed a father and we wanted to be sealed in the temple.
“One day at a Church dance, I talked to a friend named Martin Morresi. He mentioned that his father was a widower. Jokingly I said, ‘Well, my mother needs a husband! We ought to get them to meet.’ We only had one problem—his father lived 2,000 miles away.
“I began to tease my mother that I had found a husband for her. Then, at a stake choir rehearsal, Martin told me, ‘My father is coming to visit Buenos Aires, and he wants to have dinner with your mother!’ I was stunned, but I won’t even tell you my mother’s reaction. However, she accepted. Martin accompanied his father, Ruben, and I accompanied my mother, Susana, and we had a wonderful evening. Ruben Morresi was attentive and respectful. I could see he was upright and faithful, a man of God.”
Three and a half months later, Ruben and Susana were married in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple. Ximena, Micaela, and Gonzalo Martinez were sealed to them and moved with them to Ushuaia, where they joined Manuel and Micaela Morresi as new brothers and sisters. (Three older children live away from home.)
“Now I live at the end of the world,” says Ximena. “I am working with all my might to help Zion to grow here. I know the Lord’s kingdom will extend to the four corners of the earth, and this is why He has guided us to one of them.”

The day progressed better than I thought it would. Snow fell throughout the morning, giving way to an afternoon of windy sunshine. I heaved a relieved sigh when my geometry test was postponed a day. I hurried home after school to tell Topie good-bye.
Mom met me at the door. She held a dish towel in her hands. Her cheeks were wet. Why had she been crying?
“Honey,” she said, “I tried to get them to wait until you came home from school, but they left with Topie an hour ago. I know how much you wanted to say good-bye. I’m sorry, Honey. I’m so sorry.”
I felt numb and strange and sort of broken. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m going to go up to my room for a while.”
I sat on my bed for a long time. I stared out the window at the ring I used to ride in and the homemade jumps Dad built for me. I stared at distant hoof prints in the mud and the bit of snow that hadn’t quite melted. There wouldn’t be any snow in California. I stared at the green and yellow wallpaper Mom had found on sale and we had hung together. I stared at everything that I would be leaving behind.
Suddenly the door cracked open and, before I could say anything, Rob was next to me on the bed.
“Why aren’t you at baseball practice?” I asked.
“I thought you might want to do something,” he said. His little boy eyes looked soft.
That’s when it hit. I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. Tears for my beautiful horse, my ugly hair, and all of the changes that jerked me so fast and hard. Rob’s hand on my shoulder moved up and down with my gulps. When I quieted, Rob turned to me.
“I’m thinking of someone,” he said.
He was playing the guessing game, a silly game we played on long car trips. By asking yes and no questions a player had to guess who the other player was thinking about. The person in mind could be rich and famous, alive or dead, or the kid next door. The only rule was that all of the players had to have heard of that person. You got a point for each question you asked and the lowest score won.
We played for a long time, our voices trailing the air. In the back of my mind I realized that my little ten-year-old brother was missing his Little League practice in order to be with me, in order to keep my mind moving and to give my soul something to grip other than loneliness. Rob beat me by one point.
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” I forced a smile. “When you were a little kid I used to let you win whenever we raced. You could at least let me win one today.”
“That’s too much to ask!” Rob laughed. “But I will let you have the mashed potatoes first tonight!” I managed a real smile. We raced down to dinner and tied.

The last experience I’d like to share came when I passed the bar exam. A salty old trial lawyer approached me and said, “Bob, you can’t be a successful, effective trial lawyer and an active member of the LDS Church at the same time.” I considered others who were successful in their law practices and active in the Church, and I determined to be active in the Church. My decision didn’t affect my success as a trial lawyer. In fact, it enhanced it because I had balance in my life. I was trying to do what the Lord had asked me to do, and He gave me additional strength, understanding, and help.

In the fall of my third year of teaching junior English in the adult high school program at Seminole Community College, I met William. He was small, dark eyed, with tight blonde curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s when long hair, drugs, and flower children were the order of the day. I thought, “Here’s another victim of the drug culture,” and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a strangle hold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I found it was nothing I could read. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William and I live off social security in my car in an empty garage in Lake Mary. I’m 19 years old and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never taught a student who could hardly read and write before. I didn’t have a clue how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor that he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him that he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said, and after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to ever see him again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for the longest time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was reading and writing and clean. He had progressed to the point that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our American literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour and we talked. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them. His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay too.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for junior and senior English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and learned a week later he’d called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages,” he continued. “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

Ella W. was playing with her friends in the park when some of her friends lost their pet chameleon. This might not sound like that big of a deal. But remember, chameleons change color to blend in with their surroundings. After searching for a while, Ella decided it was time to pray in faith. They were soon able to find the chameleon in a tree! “Once it was in someone’s arms, we said a thank-you prayer to Heavenly Father,” Ella says.

I was born and raised in Marin County, California—at that time the fifth-wealthiest county in the nation. Living just north of San Francisco, I grew up literally surrounded by great mists, since on most days a heavy, dark fog rolled in off the Pacific Ocean.

My parents raised me in the Episcopal Church. I was baptized by Father Ewald, my dad’s adoptive father. My godmother was my mom’s best friend, a wonderful Jewish woman named Ann, and my godfather was my Uncle Gene, who became an Episcopal priest. From age nine to twelve I served as an altar boy.

However, I stopped attending church at age twelve and spent my youth playing sports. I cared nothing for books or schooling, only for baseball, basketball, tennis—and girls. I lived the superficial and worldly life typical of teens in that time and place.

My dad was a police officer and my mom an office manager, so we had only moderate means. But I spent my youth surrounded by spacious designer homes, expensive cars, exclusive tennis clubs, and well-dressed wealthy people living the so-called good life of parties, vacations, and the partaking of substances that brought ephemeral pleasures. I aspired to have all this. My goals were to play professional tennis and teach at a fancy tennis club. In other words, I wanted to live in the great and spacious building.

Meanwhile, one of my mother’s coworkers, Mrs. LoDonna Leininger, shared a copy of the Book of Mormon with Mom. Mom did not read the book but put it on the top shelf of her bookcase in the living room.

One day, at the end of November 1977, when I was nearly nineteen and was a freshman at the local junior college, I was at home relaxing and watching TV. Then I had what was—for me—a most unusual thought: since I was now a college student, I should perhaps try to become an “educated person” and actually read a book not assigned by a teacher. I went over to Mom’s bookcase. My eyes were drawn to a blue paperback book in the left-hand corner of the top shelf. I had a strong feeling that I should read that book.

So I reached up and took the Book of Mormon down and began to read. From the first verse I experienced a strange, powerful, and wonderful feeling, kind of like shivers up and down my spine. I thought a window must be open, so I checked the windows for a draft. After about twenty minutes of reading, I had to leave for work.

When I got home that night, I had that same strong feeling to read the Book of Mormon. So I brought it up to my room, sat at my desk, and read. I read through the night until about six in the morning, repeatedly experiencing this strange, strong feeling. The next day I read for a few more hours.

That evening when I came home from work, I was very tired and looking forward to sleep. But again I had the strong feeling that I should read the Book of Mormon. So I sat at my desk and again read through the night. I had many questions: Could these things really be true? Could God really exist? I came to 3 Nephi 11 and was deeply impressed with all that Jesus said and did.

At about 5 a.m. I was out of energy, sore all over, and nodding off to sleep. At about twenty pages from the end of the book, I decided that I would get some sleep and finish the book later. Then I had an overwhelming feeling and a very clear thought to finish the book now.

At the same time, I felt renewed energy, and the soreness disappeared. So I stayed in the chair and continued reading. I came to some verses that Mrs. Leininger had marked. She had underlined the verses in red pen, highlighted them with a yellow highlighter, and written in the margin in all caps, “Very important verses. Read these carefully!”

So I carefully read these marked verses—yes, they were Moroni 10:3–5—that included the invitation “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true.”6 I had never prayed from my heart before, although as a kid in church I had knelt and recited written prayers from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. So I knelt at the side of my bed and, with faith in the Jesus Christ I had read about in the Book of Mormon, I asked God to forgive my sins and asked if the Book of Mormon was true.

It is not possible for me to adequately express what then happened, but I will try. I felt the same type of wonderful spiritual feelings I had felt since I first began reading the Book of Mormon but at an incredibly intensified level of power and depth. It was as if a river of pure water rushed through me, washing away all my sins. It was also like a ­raging fire purged away my old self. I felt completely clean and like an entirely new person.

Not only was there great power, but the depth of love I felt surpasses my ability to express it. I felt that although I did not know God, God knew me perfectly. And although God knew me ­perfectly—with all my sinfulness, pride, vanity, and selfishness—He still loved me perfectly. Likewise, the sure knowledge that the Book of Mormon was the word of God was seared into my soul.

I was changed in a profound way. I no longer wanted to be what I was and do what I was doing. I wanted only to do what God wanted me to do. I wanted only to love and serve others and tell them about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. In my mind’s eye I saw glimpses of myself teaching various people and groups about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. I somehow knew that this would be my future.

I climbed into bed but felt more wide awake and filled with enthusiasm than I ever had in my life. As I lay in my bed thinking about what had just happened, I heard Mom downstairs getting ready for work. I went down and told her I had read the Book of Mormon that her coworker Mrs. Leininger had given her. I asked if she would ask Mrs. Leininger to call me and answer some questions that I had about the book.

Mrs. Leininger called that evening, and we spoke for about three hours. She invited me to come to a “special church meeting” the next day, and I accepted.

As a college student, Marion G. Romney (1897–1988) had decided he could not serve a mission because of his family’s financial situation. On one occasion, however, he heard Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) speak. A biography notes, “Little did [Marion] know that the course of his life, in one very short moment, was about to be completely changed.”

The story continues: “For the first time Marion … fully understood what it was [like] to be under the influence of inspiration. A piercing, tingling sensation filled his soul. He … never had been so touched as he was now, listening to the words of this newest of the Apostles. …

“… The glow of the Apostle’s countenance and the sincerity of [his] testimony filled him with an irresistible desire to go on a mission. … He knew that his plans for further education must be postponed.”4

Soon, Marion was on his way to Australia, where he served faithfully. Later he became a mighty Apostle and a member of the First Presidency.

Mom poked her head into David’s room. “I have a surprise.”
David looked up from his toy cars and smiled. “What is it?”
“We’re going to lunch with your cousins.”
“Yes! Can we get tacos?”
“That’s a great idea. But before we go, put your cars away.”
“I’ll do it later.”
Mom frowned. “You know the rules, David. You have to clean up before you go anywhere.”
He didn’t want to put his cars away. “Rules, rules, rules.” Suddenly he remembered something he had learned in his Sunbeam class. One of Heavenly Father’s rules was to obey your parents. He put his cars away.
At the restaurant, David stared at the huge taco on his plate. There were also rice, beans, and little green things. He picked up one of the green things.
“No, David!” his sister yelled. “Don’t eat that.”
“She’s right,” Mom said. “Don’t eat that. It’s a hot pepper.”
“More rules,” David thought. He popped the small green thing into his mouth and chomped down. Very spicy pepper juice filled his mouth. His mouth and throat felt on fire. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He coughed. “Water! My mouth … my mouth is burning.”
He grabbed his water and drank every last drop.
“Eat a corn chip,” Mom said. “It will help.”
He grabbed the chip and chewed. His mouth felt better, but his throat still hurt. The taco on his plate didn’t look good anymore. Tears still rolled down his cheeks. He looked at Mom. She had tears in her eyes, too.
Sadness came over him. He should have listened. Mom loved him. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, just like Heavenly Father loved him and didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. That’s why Heavenly Father gave him a wonderful mother and the commandment to obey his parents. His mother’s rules and Heavenly Father’s rules would help him to be happy and safe.
He wiped away the tears. The taco started to look good to him again.

Several years ago our family was serving a mission in England. Ed was the president of the England London South Mission. Our three youngest children accompanied us. After our first year in England, our son Cory returned to Provo to finish his senior year in high school. Cory's life was taken in a car accident shortly after he returned home. We were given permission to return to Provo for Cory's funeral, then we returned immediately to England and our mission responsibilities.

It was a difficult time. I missed everyone in our family. A few weeks after our return to England we received a letter from our daughter Kelly. She had included pictures of her children. It was so good to see their faces. I paused at that moment and offered a silent plea, "Heavenly Father, I wish you could send me a picture of Cory." In the next few days a letter arrived at the mission home from a young man from our ward. He had befriended Cory during Cory's year in England. He explained that he had felt a strong impression that he needed to write and tell us what a good influence Cory had been to him. He told of his recent desire to serve a mission because of Cory's example. It was a tender letter and touched my heart. I thanked Heavenly Father for sending me such a beautiful picture of Cory.

My family and I saved our money during the COVID-19 pandemic and in December 2023, we were able to travel to Utah to visit our daughter and the many temples available there. After five years of not being able to do work for our ancestors, we had prepared 65 names to take to the temple during our stay.
It was a challenge to line up appointments for all the temple work we had planned for Utah. We were desperate to help our ancestors, and as our return date approached, our incredible adventure began—we secured four baptism sessions in four different temples on the same day.
We entered the baptistry at the Provo Utah Temple early in the morning, and I begged Heavenly Father to provide a miracle for the work we needed to do. I had faith that He would also want to see my ancestors baptized.
The patrons at the baptismal font were moving slower than usual that morning, but I explained our situation to a sister working in the temple, and she invited other willing patrons to help perform the work with us.
It was an incredible and emotional experience to witness all 65 ancestors baptized by proxy, one by one, after the significant effort we had made to find them! We were so grateful for this first miracle. The Spirit was strong, and we could feel the relief, gratitude and happiness from those 65 precious souls.

The staff in the Missionary Department recently received a letter from President Thomas R. Murray of the Missouri Independence Mission concerning the missionary service of Elder and Sister Ronald Smith. He wrote:
"The Smiths left a legacy in Nebraska City, Nebraska. They baptized eighteen people, reactivated a large number in two wards, traveled many miles per month, contributed to the local newspaper, gave meaningful community service, motivated the Scouting program, strengthened the ward leadership, fellowshipped and friendshipped, and provided great public relations for the Church in the community."
Where could the Smiths have spent a more productive, profitable time or experienced more fulfilling service?

Krishna Carpenter was selected as a member of the NJCAA All-American volleyball team. Kris, who plays on the Ricks College team, was surprised and pleased by the selection. The Ricks volleyball team captured both the district and regional championships. They went on to place sixth in national competition. Kris received all-conference and all-regional honors, but the highlight was being named to the first team All-American squad. She was one of only eight to be so honored in the nation.
Kris, originally from Burley, Idaho, participated in both basketball and volleyball in high school. But when she started her freshman year at Ricks, she concentrated on volleyball and has been very successful.
Kris has been encouraged in athletics by her older brothers, and her younger sister may be following in her footsteps. Kris enjoys tutoring special education students and plans to make that her major in college.

A moment in time from my own family history exemplifies a commitment to care for those in need. Many have heard of the Willie and Martin handcart companies and how these faithful pioneers suffered and died as they endured winter cold and debilitating conditions during their trek west. Robert Taylor Burton, one of my great-great-grandfathers, was one of those whom Brigham Young asked to ride out and rescue those dear, desperate Saints.
Of this time Grandfather wrote in his journal: “Snow deep [and] very cold. … So cold that [we] could not move. … Thermometer 11 degrees below zero [-24°C] … ; so cold the people could not travel.”
Life-saving supplies were distributed to the stranded Saints, but “in spite of all [the rescuers] could do many were laid to rest by the wayside.”
As the rescued Saints were traversing a portion of the trail through Echo Canyon, several wagons pulled off to assist in the arrival of a baby girl. Robert noticed the young mother did not have enough clothing to keep her newborn infant warm. In spite of the freezing temperatures, he “took off his own homespun shirt and gave it to the mother to [wrap] the baby.” The child was given the name Echo—Echo Squires—as a remembrance of the place and circumstances of her birth.
In later years Robert was called to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church, where he served for more than three decades. At age 86 Robert Taylor Burton fell ill. He gathered his family to his bedside to give them his final blessing. Among his last words was this simple but very profound counsel: “Be kind to the poor.”

Isabelle was happy that it was spring. She liked to listen to the birds. She liked to play in the green grass.
Isabelle was happy it was time for Easter. She knew Easter was a special day. On Easter we celebrate when Jesus came back to life.
In Primary, Sister Martin gave crayons to all the children in class. She asked them to draw the greatest gift Heavenly Father gave them.
Michael drew a picture of his family.
Eliza drew a picture of her friend.
Anthony drew a picture of his house.
Isabelle looked at the drawings. They were very good.
Isabelle thought about what she should draw. She was happy to have a family. She was happy to have friends. She was happy to have a house.
Then Isabelle thought about another gift that Heavenly Father gave all people. He gave everyone the gift of a Savior. Isabelle picked up her crayons. She drew a picture of Jesus Christ.
Sister Martin asked Isabelle what she drew.
“I drew a picture of Jesus,” Isabelle said. “He is the greatest gift.”

The last day of her fifth grade year was a day Rose would never forget.
She was eleven years old, quiet, and shy. But she loved being with her friends, playing games and competing with them.
That day was a field day. She thought, I can choose to do whatever I want!
A few teachers had set up games and races for the children. Rose and her two best friends, Tricia and Kelly, decided to help some of the teachers set things up. Rose had a lot of fun helping her own teacher, Mr. Charles, put up signs and get the first-, second-, and third-place ribbons ready for the winners.
Of course, Rose wanted to be one of the winners. In fact, she thought, I sure would like a first-place ribbon to take home!
At last the fun began. Rose, Tricia, and Kelly competed in several games together. Each of them won second- and third-place ribbons.
After a while, Kelly decided that she wanted to help the first grade teacher with the sack race, and Tricia wanted to enter the drawing contest. Rose didn’t know what else she wanted to do, so she decided to walk around.
When she came to the peanut race, it looked like it would be fun. She watched the younger children’s division and saw that it was no ordinary race. She clapped her hands as the winner got to the finish line—it was her happy little neighbor, Andi Marie.
When she signed up for her own division, Rose saw that about nine other girls had entered. She didn’t know any of them very well, but they all seemed to be friends.
The teacher in charge, Mr. Stevens, was one of the favorite teachers in the school. He handed each girl a peanut and a flat, wooden ice-cream spoon and explained the rules. “First, place the peanut on the spoon. When I blow the whistle, go as fast as you can toward the finish line, trying to not let the peanut fall off. If it does, stop, pick it up, put it back on your spoon, and continue the race. The first one who crosses the finish line will be the winner. No cheating!”
As Mr. Stevens headed for the finish line, which seemed very far away, Rose saw that many kids had gathered along both sides of the race course. Her heart began to pound.
The whistle blew, and off they went! Rose was determined to win, but it was harder than she’d thought it would be. Every few steps the peanut rolled off her spoon. She kept stopping to pick it up, put it back on her spoon, and hurry on. It was fun at first, but then she heard some kids laughing. The laughter got louder and louder. Mr. Stevens was yelling out over the noise, “Come on, keep it up! You can make it!”
When she dared to glance up, she saw that all the other girls had already crossed the finish line. How could they have gotten there so fast? Rose thought. They were laughing, too—and hooting—at her: “You’re too slow! We all beat you! Ha-ha-ha!”
All eyes were on Rose. The peanut kept rolling off, and she kept picking it up as even the bystanders laughed and made fun.
She was only halfway down the racecourse. Her face flushed bright red with embarrassment. The next time the peanut rolled off, she stopped, picked it up, and walked off the course. What’s the use of going on? She asked herself. She just wanted to go home or hide someplace.
Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she turned around to see a concerned Mr. Stevens. When he asked why she had walked off, all she could do was shrug. If she’d tried to speak, she would have cried.
She never forgot what Mr. Stevens said to her then: “You should have kept going. Even if you had come in last, you would have been the winner. Didn’t you know that every one of those girls had their thumbs on the peanuts? They all cheated. You were the only one who wasn’t cheating. But you gave up.”
“But you gave up” kept ringing in her ears. She didn’t like those words. She didn’t believe in being a quitter, but she had quit. Instead of being an embarrassed loser, she could have been a happy winner taking home the first-place ribbon!

My father's great grandparents were in the Willy Handcart Company. Peder and Helena Mortensen had planned to come to Zion with their entire family. As they prepared to come to the Valley of the Salt Lake, the mission president in their native Denmark asked if they would leave their oldest son, Morton (my great great grandfather) to serve a mission. This was very difficult for them because Peder (the father) and the oldest daughter Kristine were disabled and not able to walk well. The family was depending on this eldest son to be the strength in getting the family consisting of 8 children to Utah. The youngest child was four years old.

The mission president, Hector C. Haight, promised them that "If you will consent to his staying and filling a mission, I promise you in the name of the Lord that you shall every one reach the land of Zion in safety, that God will protect you on the land and on the sea." They accepted his promise with faith, and it was agreed that Morton would remain in Denmark. The family traveled by steamship across the Atlantic, by train to Iowa City and it was there the decision was made to make the journey by handcart with the older children pulling the handcart with father Peder and daughter Kristine and often young 4 year old Caroline in the handcart. I cannot even imagine their struggle on the night of October 19, 1856 when over 18 inches of snow fell. Having run out of food two days earlier, the arrival of the rescue party was a literal answer to their prayers. The second oldest son Anders recorded that:

We wept as we went on our journey. We went before the Lord and pleaded for Him to make good the promises which were given to us by His servants when we were in old Denmark. How we implored Him to raise the sick and give us strength to carry our burdens without complaints!

Although they still had to endure the agonizing pull up Rocky Ridge and an additional 300 miles to Salt Lake, the family - every one of them - arrived on November 9th. This story is one of resilience and renewal and has taught me another step necessary for spiritual renewal - prayer and faith in the promises of our Heavenly Father.