Gospel Story Finder

We sang in the Primary children’s choir in general conference!
Wyatt (age 10): I felt happy but was scared about messing up on camera. It was so cool to be right by the Apostles and members of the Seventy. It was a really great opportunity.
Bridger (age 11): It was a day I’ll never forget. For the first time in 100 years, three new Apostles were sustained. Also, for the first time ever they had an all-children’s choir in conference, and my brother and I were in it. The things I felt were inconceivable, which means there were no words for it.
When we sang, I felt the Spirit stronger than ever before. It was calm and our singing came out so well. It was almost like it couldn’t possibly be us, it was so beautiful.
Before conference I was afraid that I’d be scared. Yet we got there and had faith, and we were given courage. We were in front of 20,000-plus people, and I wasn’t afraid. It goes to show that you could even march to battle, unafraid and determined, like the armies of Helaman. When you go anywhere, go with undying faith and keep your promises with God.

My own faith had its beginnings following a time of sorrow.
My father and mother were sheep farmers in New Zealand. They enjoyed their life. As a young married couple, they were blessed with three little girls. The youngest of these was named Ann. One day while they were on holiday together at a lake, 17-month-old Ann toddled off. After minutes of desperate searching, she was found lifeless in the water.
This nightmare caused unspeakable sorrow. Dad wrote years later that some of the laughter went out of their lives forever. It also caused a yearning for answers to life’s most important questions: What will become of our precious Ann? Will we ever see her again? How can our family ever be happy again?
Some years after this tragedy, two young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to our farm. They began teaching the truths found in the Book of Mormon and the Bible. These truths include the assurance that Ann now lives in the spirit world. Because of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, she too will be resurrected. They taught that the Church of Jesus Christ has once again been restored on earth with a living prophet and twelve Apostles. And they taught the unique and remarkable doctrine that families can be bound together forever by the same priesthood authority Jesus Christ gave His chief Apostle, Peter.
Mum instantly recognized truth and received a witness of the Spirit. Dad, however, wrestled for the next year between doubts and spiritual nudges. Also, he was reluctant to change his way of life. One morning following a sleepless night, while pacing the floor, he turned to Mum and said, “I will be baptized today or never.”
Mum told the missionaries what had happened, and they immediately recognized the flicker of faith in my father that would now be either lit or extinguished.
That very morning our family traveled to the nearest beach. Unaware of what was happening, we children had a picnic on the sand dunes while Elders Boyd Green and Gary Sheffield led my parents into the ocean and baptized them. In a further act of faith, Dad privately committed to the Lord that come what may, he would be true all his life to the promises he was making.
One year later a temple was dedicated in Hamilton, New Zealand. Shortly thereafter our family, with someone representing Ann, knelt around the altar in that sacred house of the Lord. There, by the authority of the priesthood, we were united as an eternal family in a simple and beautiful ordinance. This brought great peace and joy.
Many years later Dad told me that if not for Ann’s tragic death, he would never have been humble enough to accept the restored gospel. Yet the Spirit of the Lord instilled hope that what the missionaries taught was true. My parents’ faith continued to grow until they each burned with the fire of testimony that quietly and humbly guided their every decision in life.
I will always be thankful for my parents’ example to future generations. It is impossible to measure the number of lives forever changed because of their acts of faith in response to profound sorrow.

In 1898 David O. McKay (1873–1970), who later became the ninth President of the Church, was a homesick missionary in Scotland. He had been in the city of Stirling only a few weeks and was discouraged. He and his companion spent one morning walking around Stirling Castle. On the way back into town they noticed an unfinished building. “Over the front door,” President McKay later explained, “was a stone arch, something unusual in a residence, and what was still more unusual, I could see from the sidewalk that there was an inscription chiseled in that arch.
“I said to my companion: ‘That’s unusual! I am going to see what the inscription is.’ When I approached near enough, this message came to me, not only in stone, but as if it came from One in whose service we were engaged:
“‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part’” (in Conference Report, October 1956, 91).
The message the young elder received that morning was to act his part well as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was also a message President McKay lived and taught throughout a lifetime of service.

Margaret and Dean’s life also took an unexpected turn when Dean developed early Alzheimer’s. He could no longer help with the finances, and Margaret felt lost. With help from their children, Margaret pieced together available resources. Yet she froze when making decisions about finances and about Dean’s care.
Margaret wore herself out as Dean’s primary caregiver. She was afraid they couldn’t afford caregivers or moving to an assisted-living facility.
Where could she turn for help beyond her immediate family circle?
Seeking direction from heaven, she soon found peace. She was guided to her team of angels. These angels came in the form of physicians, financial professionals, and Church leaders. They not only found ways to reposition resources but also found outside sources of help.
Through her bishop’s wise counsel, Margaret learned she need not feel guilty about being unable to care for Dean by herself. She gained the confidence to move him into a moderately priced assisted-living center where caregivers were available as needed. Dean was later moved to a memory-care wing where Margaret could still visit him daily. Margaret also enjoyed the social support from the other residents in the center. The children and grandchildren visited often.
Many hard decisions had to be made, but Margaret had the peace of knowing that her resources were sufficient. If needed, however, her children had offered to chip in. These difficult family discussions brought them all closer together.

Day by day the scenery and travel grew increasingly tiresome. Near Chimney Rock (in what is now Wyoming) some of the cattle became diseased and died, forcing the company to make shorter drives each day. William began to think he would never get to Utah and rejoin Elizabeth.
Finally one October Saturday, William’s company descended the hills above Salt Lake City, awed by a beautiful sunset across the Great Salt Lake and by the splendid square-blocked city stretched out below them. As they approached the city, an occupant of a nearby cabin called and waved to William. It was Sister Wardell, the woman with whom Elizabeth had traveled to Utah! William hurried to her, but his anticipation was instantly crushed. She informed him that Elizabeth no longer loved him and planned to marry a local polygamist!
“This was like a bolt of thunder to me,” he recalled. Heartsick, the young man continued with the company to the valley floor, then returned that night to the Wardells. The woman tried to persuade William to marry her daughter, but he was not interested. “I formed a resolution that I was going to have the ‘love of my youth’”, he said.
Friends from Maldon lived in Centerville so early the next week William hiked 19 kilometers to locate them. He arrived at night, and “to my great joy the girl of my heart was found lying asleep on an old home-made lounge and looking free although almost in rags. She awoke, and her joy was unbounded.” Elizabeth then explained that the Wardell woman had tried to marry her to her own son. That failing, the mother sent the girl away and kept all the clothes and bedding until Elizabeth’s 40-dollar fare was paid in full. The woman then had made up the story about Elizabeth’s loss of affection for William, hoping the navy veteran would marry into the Wardell family.
William returned to Salt Lake City and drove his freight team to Springville where he received his three months’ wages. Then he walked back to Salt Lake, paid off the 40-dollar debt, obtained his and Elizabeth’s belongings, and then got a ride back to Centerville. Two weeks later the engaged couple were married.

But unity between members cannot simply be attributed to Dominican warmth and hospitality. Leaders and members alike work hard to maintain closeness and cooperation, a sometimes difficult accomplishment when people of every social class come together as they do in the Church. People who have otherwise remained distant from each other socially, geographically, even religiously need inspired leadership, and Dominican Church leaders such as Santiago district president Ramón Lantigua and his wife, Victoria, have provided just that.

“The problem of class differences is something I’ve prayed about a great deal,” Ramón comments. He noticed that sometimes at Church gatherings, the women of high social standing would embrace each other upon meeting, while giving only obligatory greetings to the other sisters. “Would the Lord do that if he were here—smile only to the high society?” Ramón questioned. Victoria was bothered by activities such as gift exchanges that “for the wealthy are no problem. But the poorer members have to save and save just to buy one small gift.”

Now serving as a branch Relief Society president, Victoria plans activities that avoid bringing out class differences and that value everyone’s talents. President Lantigua encourages leaders to set good examples by treating everyone “equally and as a child of God. After all, members follow their leaders’ examples.”

The result? A togetherness that serves to make new, old, and nonmembers feel completely welcome. When César and Lillian Lozano were baptized in 1989 after having lived in the United States, Spain, and Puerto Rico, they received such a warm reception from Dominican members that “we knew this had to be God’s church. People were so good to each other.”

Kaori Sasaki, 15, told of hearing the Tabernacle Choir sing during its September 1979 visit to Japan. “Coming out of the concert hall afterward, I ran into one of my kindergarten teachers. Only when she was my teacher she wasn’t a member of the Church. But there we met each other as members of the Church. I was so happy it made me cry.”
She said the choir’s visit received a lot of favorable publicity. “On television, they had quite an exposure. I think it helped more people know about the Church, as well as about the choir.”

One of my early memories is reading the scriptures in a school room. The law of the land did not yet forbid it, so the Princeton, New Jersey, public schools began each school day with a standard ritual. I can’t remember the sequence, but I remember the content. In our classroom, we pledged allegiance to the flag—in unison, standing hand over heart. One student, a different one each school day, read verses he or she had chosen from the Bible, and then we recited aloud together the Lord’s Prayer.

So about every twenty-five school days, my turn came to choose the scripture. I always chose the same one, so my classmates must have known what was coming when it was my day. I don’t remember when I first heard the words; that is lost in the mists of childhood. But I can recite them to you now, and with them the feelings come back. It happened every time, and it still does:
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. [1 Corinthians 13:1–2]

You remember the rest, through that thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians. By the time I read the first few words, the feeling would come back. The feeling was not just that the words were true, but that they were about some better world I wanted with all my heart to live in. For me, the feeling was even more specific, and I knew it did not come from within me. It was that there would or could be some better life, and that it would be in a family I would someday have. In that then-distant future, I would be able to live with people in some better, kinder way, beyond even the best and the kindest world I had known as a boy.

Now, little boys don’t talk about such things, not to anyone. You might confide in someone that you wanted to play big league baseball someday. But you wouldn’t say that you knew someday you’d have a home where you would feel the way you felt when you heard the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians. So I never talked with anyone about those feelings.

When I was eleven, my parents dropped me off at the Salt Lake City home of my great uncle Gaskell Romney. He was a patriarch and, because he was my father’s uncle, he could give me, a boy from the mission field, a patriarchal blessing. I don’t think he even sat down to visit with me. He didn’t know me except as my father’s son. He just led me through the house to a room where a recording device was on a table. He sat me down facing a fireplace, put his hands on my head, and began to give first my lineage and then a blessing.

He began to tell me about the home in which I would someday be the father. That’s when I opened my eyes. I know the stones in the fireplace were there because I began to stare at them. I wondered, “How can this man know what is only in my heart?” He described in concrete detail what had been only a yearning; but I could recognize it. It was the desire of my heart, that future home and family that I thought was secret. But it was not secret, because God knew.

Our daughter, Emily, describes the darkness of an unanswered request for guidance as being in the middle of a room where there is no glimmer of light. She knows there is a light switch, but its whereabouts are a mystery. She is tempted to stay safely rooted where she is, but choosing safety means never finding the light. So she moves tentatively forward feeling carefully for each step determined to find a wall, because light switches are usually on walls.

I watched Emily apply this metaphor when she neared college graduation; interestingly as she felt her way in the dark, she seemed to develop an internal flashlight whose beam was just bright enough to illuminate her next step. She learned to trust, not just in Heavenly Father, but in her own tuition. This type of strength could not occur if Heavenly Father had laid out her steps in bright LED lights.

Emotionally and spiritually, I was about ready to hit rock bottom, but I wouldn’t admit it to myself. Nor would I face the fact that I was the cause of my own troubles. I kept thinking that I’d be okay. I kept trying to ignore the consequences of my actions. I blamed others for the growing emptiness and discontent I felt.
Activities with one group of friends were pulling me away from the Lord, my family, my testimony, and my prayers. I didn’t feel worthy to pray. The prayers I did offer were hollow. I knew they wouldn’t make it past the ceiling. I was also pulling away from my best friend, Ann. But she wouldn’t let go.
She stopped by to see me one day after school, and we went outside to talk. She pointedly asked, “How are you?”
“Good,” I shot back a bit defensively, conscious of my poor choice of grammar, which matched my rebellious mood.
“Just how good are you?” she pushed.
Without thinking I blurted out a phrase I had picked up from my new group of friends. “Good enough for who I’m for!”
Often, instead of doing their best, they did just enough to get by. “It’s good enough for who it’s for,” was their common cliche.
As soon as my words escaped my lips I wanted to recall them. They echoed through the emptiness I felt.
“Are you really?” Ann queried.
The words stung bitterly as questions raced through my mind. “Who was I really for? And what was I good for? Was I still for the Lord?” It didn’t even seem like I was for myself anymore. It was time to take a good hard look at myself. Now when I look back on that confrontation, I thank the Lord for a friend who wouldn’t allow me to push her away. Our conversation caused me to reflect upon where I was and who I was for. It caused me to begin to make some major changes in my life.
I decided I would be for the Lord. I would work for his cause and to fulfill his purposes. Now I know who I’m for, but I’m still working on being good enough for who I’m for.

Some years ago I became acquainted with the story of a young family whose little son was tragically ill with cancer. Every night the father sat with his boy, holding him in his arms. The pain seemed less when daddy held him close. The father slept on a mattress on the floor beside his son so that he could reach him whenever the boy cried out. The parents bore their sorrow with courage. They prayed, they loved, they served. Faith gave them strength to meet the test.

“In the hospital one day I was wheeled out of the operating room by an attendant who stumbled, and there issued from his angry lips vicious cursing with a combination of the names of the Savior. Even half-conscious, I recoiled and implored: ‘Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.’ There was a deathly silence; then a subdued voice whispered, ‘I am sorry.’ … You don’t ever use any indecent language, do you, my young friends? That would be a disgrace. … We do not use foul language. We do not curse or defame. We do not use the Lord’s name in vain” (“President Kimball Speaks Out on Profanity,” Jan.–Feb. 1981, pp. 4, 6).

“Let’s grab the gear. It’s fishing time!” Dad said.
Hayden grinned as he looked around. Everything was bright and buzzing. They had the whole lake to themselves!
Following Dad, Hayden walked behind the car and lifted the big fishing tackle box out of the trunk. It was heavy, but he didn’t mind. He’d carry one twice this heavy if it meant fishing with Dad.
Fishing poles rattled together as Dad pulled them out. “Looks like Dan fell asleep,” he said. “Will you wake him up?”
Hayden held back a sigh. “Uh, sure.”
He’d almost forgotten that his little brother, Dan, had come too. Dan was always running around and talking loudly. He’d scare all the fish away!
He looked in the open window. “Dan, time to wake up.”
But Dan was still fast asleep.
Hayden paused. With any luck, Dan might sleep right through the whole trip.
Hayden quietly hauled the tackle box to Dad’s fishing spot on the shore.
“Here’s the bait, worms and all!”
Dad took the tackle box from him. “Great, thanks.” Then Dad looked up. “Where’s your brother?”
Hayden glanced at the car. All of a sudden he wondered how he would feel if he woke up alone in a new place. Not good, Hayden decided. In fact, he’d probably feel pretty scared. And Dan was only five.
“Just a second, Dad. I’ll be right back.” But when he looked in the car, Dan was gone!
Hayden couldn’t hear the buzzing insects any more. Everything seemed to go quiet.
“Dan’s not here!” Hayden yelled.
Dad hurried over and quickly checked the car.
“He’s probably just looking for us,” Dad said. “It’s only been a minute. He won’t be far.”
Hayden tried to stay calm, but his stomach was turning somersaults. “Can I say a prayer?”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
Hayden thanked Heavenly Father for his little brother and asked that they would find Dan right away so that he wouldn’t feel afraid.
When Hayden finished, his heart stopped feeling so tight.
Dad put a hand on Hayden’s shoulder. “What if you were Dan? Where would you go?”
Hayden noticed the door on the other side of the car was open. Dan probably hadn’t seen them on the shore. Hayden pointed to a trail nearby. “I’d probably start walking that way,” he said.
They hurried along the trail.
Every second felt slow and heavy. As he walked, Hayden kept saying prayers in his heart. After a few steps, they came around a bend in the trail and saw Dan up ahead.
“Dan!” Hayden shouted.
Dan spun around and smiled. “Hey, where did you guys go?”
Time sped up again. Hayden raced to Dan and hugged him tight.
“I’m so glad we found you,” Hayden said. He said a quick prayer of thanks in his heart.
Dan just grinned. “Where are the fish?”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Hayden said. His feet were itching to run to the lake. “Let’s see who can catch the first fish. I’ll help you bait your hook.”

Several months ago I embarked on one of the longest drives I have ever made by myself. A dear friend had passed away, and I was determined to attend his funeral, even if that meant traveling alone. I confess that as I prepared to leave home, I felt some strong misgivings about the upcoming journey. Our car is not the most reliable, and I doubted my ability to effectively handle our vehicle if an emergency should arise. Although I had carefully studied a map and tried to familiarize myself with the route, I feared road conditions that I could not foresee or anticipate. I expressed my concerns to my husband, who quickly assured me that everything would be all right. But his reassurances did not assuage my fears nor make me feel better about the upcoming trip.

Sensing my unspoken discomfort, my husband asked if I would sit down for a few minutes before my departure. “Shannon,” he said, “I can’t come with you, but let’s practice the drive together.” He stood behind me, put his arms around me, and instructed me to pretend like we were in our car. My protestations that I felt very foolish were of no avail; my husband gently insisted that we practice the route together. As I held an imaginary steering wheel, he asked me to verbalize the directions and to move my hands and feet the way I would if I were really driving.

We practiced the entire trip together, rehearsing every turn, every stop, and every exit. It was comforting to feel and hear my husband, who knew the roads, give me a clear picture of what to expect. At the end of our pretend drive, my husband once again expressed confidence in my ability to complete the journey and promised me that if I had any problems, I could always call him.

During the actual drive, when doubts arose, I felt the memory of my husband’s arms around my own, guiding and comforting me. The trip started smoothly, and I was finally beginning to relax and even enjoy the ride when I discovered—to my great anxiety—that I had taken a wrong turn and had gone many miles in the wrong direction. I called my husband and frantically explained my situation. With his help I was eventually able to get back on course and arrive safely at my destination.

As a single woman I yearned for marriage and children for many years. Yet despite sincere effort, I could not seem to make that reality happen. At the time, I could not see the miraculous work the Lord was bringing about in my heart through that struggle. My unfulfilled yearnings played a sacred role in inclining my heart toward my Redeemer to seek peace and direction He alone could provide and deepen my trust in His perfect love and enabling power. Daily prayer and scripture study, and especially the words of general conference, became a lifeline of hope and direction. I felt compelled to turn to the words of my patriarchal blessing—and other priesthood blessings—to find love and direction that were personal to me from my Eternal Father.

Eventually, I did miraculously marry my beloved companion, Michael. But I found that my need to be deeply anchored in Jesus Christ only continued. I faced infertility, yearning for more children. When we were finally blessed with our two children, I felt keenly my inadequacies and weaknesses as a mother, knowing that I sometimes failed them in ways I feared would inhibit their growth. I wondered sometimes if the other children we had yearned for had run when they witnessed my struggles as a mother. I wondered how could I ever create the kind of family I desired?

As I struggled it became clear to me that I was denying the reality of my Redeemer. Yes, this is the great plan of family – the Creation provided the place for the family to live. The Fall provided the place for the family to grow. And it is the Atonement of Jesus Christ that makes possible the fullness of grace that is needed for the family to become healed, and eternally one.

In pouring out my heart to God, I found that the Lord, Jesus Christ, answers the pain and loss inherent to our mortal experience with the purest form of love, covenant, drawing closer to us, sharing our pain and weakness in the most profound form of intimacy. In that covenant relationship, His sanctifying power enters us, giving us power to do what is needed to bless our families, opening the way for us to be ever closer to Him, and ever closer to others. [22] Miraculously, through His grace and redemption, and His alone, we can become the kind of people in the kinds of relationships that define heaven.

After we had finished the gully project, my nephew and his bride asked to have their wedding reception in the gully and garden. They planned to come and help with the final tidying up before the event.

But time slipped away. They were busy and unable to come. The day of the open house, I awoke at 6:00 a.m. feeling grumpy. I got up, grabbed my bucket and clippers, and walked to the bottom of the gully’s 58 stairs. As I worked my way up the stairs trimming the English ivy, my feelings calmed. At about 8:00 a.m., I heard a lawnmower in the front yard. I took a break to see what was happening.

When I reached the front yard, Elder Nelson had finished mowing his lawn and was now mowing my lawn.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said.

“Yes, Grant,” he replied, “I need to do this for you today.”

Elder Nelson knew how to hear Heavenly Father. That day, God knew I needed some help.

That experience changed me. Afterward, when my wife and I prayed each day, we began asking to be made aware of those around us who needed our help.

One morning a good many years ago, a member of the Council of the Twelve came to my office and told me of a beautiful, touching experience that had happened to him that day. He had gone to the old Deseret Gym to enjoy the steam bath for a while. As he sat there in the heavy steam, he heard the door open and looked upward toward the door to see who was entering. He could not see anyone, but he had a feeling someone else was there in the room with him. After a few minutes he saw a young Primary-age boy about eight or nine years old who had seated himself two or three feet away. The boy gradually slid closer to the Apostle, and they finally said “hello” to each other. Then the boy moved even closer until he could look up into the face of the Church leader. The little boy said, “Mister, I think I know who you are.” The Apostle said, “Who am I?” The boy said, “I think you are one of the Apostles of the Church. I think you are the one who travels all over the ocean on big boats and little boats and all kinds of airplanes—and you are the one who never gets sick or hurt in any wrecks.” The Apostle acknowledged that he was the one who was having those great experiences. The boy then said to him, “Do you know why it is you don’t ever get killed or get hurt?” The Apostle said, “No, why is that?” The little Primary boy said, “That’s because I pray for you.”
What a touching, lovely expression of faith in a simple, wonderful way! This experience happened forty years ago, but I think of it frequently. There is far more power in simple prayer than many of us think possible.

Mom took Anna shopping for a new dress.
How about this one?
No, thank you.
All right, do you like the yellow one with flowers or the red one with dots?
But you like these colors. What would you like instead?
I want one of these dresses so I can look like the missionaries.
OK. Let’s see if we can find a dress in your size.
Anna loved the two sister missionaries in her ward. They shook her hand at church, they smiled when she waved at them on the street, and they prayed with her family when they came to dinner.
On Sunday, Anna could hardly wait to show the missionaries her new dress. When she saw them at church, she twirled around for them.
I look just like you now!
You do look just like us.
And you don’t just look like a missionary; you are a missionary!
Your mom told me you’ve been praying for us all week like we asked you to. And look! We brought someone to church today. Your prayers have been helping us.
Thank you, missionary Anna.

Thomas Giles, a Welsh convert who joined the Church in 1844, suffered much in his lifetime. He was a miner, and while he was digging coal in the mine, a large piece of coal hit him on the head and made a wound nine inches (23 cm) long. The doctor who examined him said the injured man would not live longer than 24 hours. But then the elders came and blessed him. He was promised that he would get well and that “even if he would never see again, he would live to do much good in the Church.” Brother Giles did indeed live but was blind the rest of his life.
In 1856 Brother Giles and his family moved to Utah, but before he left his homeland, the Welsh Saints presented him with a harp, which he learned to play well. At Council Bluffs, Iowa, he joined a handcart company and headed west. “Though blind he pulled a handcart from Council Bluffs to Salt Lake City.” While crossing the plains his wife and two children died. “His sorrow was great and his heart almost broken, but his faith did not fail him.” When Brother Giles arrived in Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young, who had heard his story, loaned Brother Giles a valuable harp until his own arrived from Wales. Brother Giles “traveled from settlement to settlement in Utah, … gladdening the hearts of the people with his sweet music.”1

Two years ago, in beautiful Heber Valley just east of Salt Lake City, a loving mother and devoted father returned to that personal haven called home to discover that their three eldest sons lay dead. The night was bitter cold, and the fierce wind swept the falling snow, which covered the chimney, releasing deadly carbon monoxide fumes throughout the house.
The joint funeral service for the Keller boys was one of the most touching experiences of my life. The residents of the community had placed aside their daily tasks, children were excused from school, and all thronged to the chapel to express their deep feelings of condolence. So long as time and memory endure, I shall remember the scene of three shiny caskets, followed by grief-stricken parents and grandparents making their way to the front of the building.
The first speaker was the wrestling coach of the local high school. He paid tribute to Louis, the oldest boy. With an emotion-filled voice, and choking back the tears, he told how Louis was not necessarily the most gifted wrestler on the team, but added, “No one tried harder. What he lacked in athletic skill he made up with a determined heart.”
Then a youth leader spoke of Travis. He told how Travis had excelled in Scouting, in Aaronic Priesthood work, and was such a sterling example to his friends.
Finally, a distinguished appearing and obviously competent elementary school teacher told of Jason, the youngest of the three. She described him as quiet, even shy. Then, without embarrassment, she told how Jason had, in the scrawled penmanship of a boy, sent to her the sweetest and most welcome letter she had ever received. Its message was brief—just three words: “I love you.” She could barely complete her talk, so deep-felt were her emotions.
Through the tears and the sorrow of that special day, I observed eternal lessons that had been taught by those boys whose lives were honored and whose mortal missions concluded.
A coach expressed the determination to look beyond athletic prowess and into the heart of each boy. A youth leader made a solemn vow that every boy and girl would have the benefit which the program of the Church provided. An elementary school teacher looked at the small children, classmates of Jason. She said nothing, but her eyes revealed the determination of her soul. The message was unmistakably clear: “I will love each child. Each boy, each girl will be guided in the search for truth, in the development of talent, and be introduced to the wonderful world of service.”
And the audience, including Elders Marvin J. Ashton and Thomas S. Monson, will never again be the same. All will strive toward that perfection spoken of by the Master. Our inspiration? The lives of the boys who now rest from care and sorrow, and the fortitude of parents who trust in the Lord with all their hearts, who lean not to their own understanding, and who in all their ways acknowledge Him, knowing that He will direct their paths. (See Prov. 3:5–6.)
Let me share with you a portion of a letter sent to me by the noble mother of these three sons. It was written soon after their passing.
“We do have days and nights that right now seem so overwhelming. The change in our home life has been so drastic. With almost half our family gone now, the cooking, washing, and even shopping are different. We miss the noise and clutter, the teasing and playing together. Such are gone. Sunday is so quiet. We miss seeing the sacrament blessed and passed by our sons. Sunday was truly our family together day. We ponder the thought: no missions, no weddings, no grandchildren. We would not ask for their return, but we could not say we would ever have willingly given them up. We have returned to our Church duties and our family responsibilities. Our desire is to so live that the Keller family will be a forever family.”