Gospel Story Finder

Our baseball team had seven boys and two girls, and we called ourselves the Sonoma Lions. During the summer months, we practiced and played three or four times a week in a big vacant lot after our chores were done. It was just for fun—at first.
Then one day my brother Ramie told me there was another team called the Crows a few streets away from ours. I rode my bike to their team captain’s house and asked him if the Crows would like to play with us at the end of summer.
Two days later, he rode his bike to my house and said his team would like to play against ours—and that the Crows would beat us.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “We’ll see about that!”
We practiced hard, determined to beat the Crows. The end of summer was getting closer, and we were getting excited. And then along came Forrester.
Forrester was 10, and he had some mental challenges. His family had just moved into the neighborhood.
Forrester showed up one day while our team was practicing. He was skinny and just kind of stood there, too shy to ask if he could be on our team. Nobody wanted him to ask, especially me. We didn’t need him to help us beat the Crows, and we were afraid he would make us lose.
I guess he could tell we didn’t want him to be a part of our group. He lowered his head and stood there looking at the ground, kicking at a little rock. Then he slowly turned and started walking away.
A thought came into my mind: “What would Jesus do?”
I realized the Holy Ghost had told me this because the words had come from somewhere deep inside me.
When I looked at Ramie and the other team members, I could tell they felt like I did—awful. So I hurried and caught up with Forrester and asked him to come back and play with us.
I saw a smile come into his eyes, and he looked surprised and happy at the same time.
At the big game between our team and the Crows we all played hard, including Forrester.
We lost the game, 12 to 10. But that was OK. Forrester was a good player and a good sport. He even scored one of our runs. When he ran across home plate, I was cheering and jumping up and down.
Mom and Dad said Heavenly Father cheers for us when we make good choices. And I know that inviting Forrester to join the Sonoma Lions was a good choice because it made me feel warm all over, just like the quilt Mom made me does on cold winter nights.

Now that the triplets are old enough to date, they’re really finding their threesome to be an advantage at times. Dan recalls one evening when he was trying to phone a girl to ask her out, but her number was always busy. He had to run off to a meeting, so he assigned brother Dave to fill in for him.
“Dave finally got hold of her and asked for a date. She said yes, I took her out, and she never found out what really happened,” says Dan. The three brothers remain sworn to secrecy as to the name of the young lady in question.

To illustrate this, I’m going to share a story that not many people know about because it’s not one of my finest moments. As a freshman in college, I took a required math course. It was a calculus class, which I had avoided taking in high school because I have always preferred letters over numbers. At the beginning of the semester, I was registered to receive a letter grade at the end of the semester. By midterms, I changed that to a Pass/Fail option, and by the end of the semester, I got a big, fat, F on my transcript. As a former valedictorian, this was the absolute lowest point of my academic career. Not only had I received my first-ever failing grade, but I now had to retake the class and relive my suffering. How had this happened?

Well, I’ll tell you: I sometimes missed class to sleep in or study for other classes. I told myself that I would cram before the final and that it would all work out somehow. I didn’t attend office hours or tutoring, and I didn’t give my best effort to my daily assignments. When it was time to study, I usually chose to go out and do fun things with my new college friends instead. Now, arguably none of these small actions would have had a big effect if they happened only once or twice during the semester. But enacted consistently over the course of the semester, they added up to a failing grade.

The power of small and simple things goes both ways. It can lead to great things, or it can lead to awful things. Sometimes, as my story illustrates, the consequence comes by choosing NOT to act.

It was Christmas Eve, and large, soft snowflakes were gently falling. Three small girls—Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Sarah Amelia, who was often called Pet—were home alone while their widowed mother was at work. The three girls were worried about Santa not being able to get down the chimney, so they decided to sweep a path for him from the outside gate to the front door. Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet were excited as they finished and went inside their home.
In the house was a very large rocking chair, and all three girls cuddled up in it. They were beginning to get tired, when they heard their family cow, Boss, mooing and mooing. “Poor old Boss,” Pet said. “She must be hungry.”
They were quiet for a minute; then Sarah said, “It’s Christmas, and Boss doesn’t have one Christmas present, not even something to eat.”
Caroline came up with a wonderful idea: “Our mattress is filled with nice dried grass. Let’s feed it to Boss.”
So Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet pulled the covers off their bed, struggled to get a good hold on the mattress, and pulled it into the front room. They put on their coats and gloves, then dragged the mattress through the doorway and over to the barnyard. They ripped open the mattress and dumped the grass out. Old Boss stopped mooing and got busy eating her Christmas Eve supper. The very tired girls returned to the house. They curled up in the big rocking chair and were soon fast asleep.
When their mother got home, she awakened the girls and told them to go to bed. Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet told her that they couldn’t because they had fed their bed to the cow. So that night their mother let them sleep in the big rocking chair.
Sometime that night, Santa came and filled their stockings with yummy things to eat. And the next morning a good neighbor came with a load of hay and straw. So old Boss got a second Christmas present, and Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet got a new straw bed.

For years, Aarika’s grandparents Raymond and Marilyn Perez supported Aarika and her brother, Aaron, as they went to church. But becoming members themselves wasn’t in the Perez’s plans. “I’m not going to become a Mormon,” Marilyn would tell her granddaughter. And the granddaughter would just smile because she had other ideas.
When Aaron left as a missionary to the Chile Santiago South Mission, Aarika began inviting her grandparents to church, and the Perezes accepted the invitations. Meanwhile Aaron wrote them letters from the mission field.
“And when Aaron got home from his mission, things got more and more serious about the Church,” Aarika recalls. Not long after that, what they said wouldn’t happen did. Raymond and Marilyn were baptized in December 1999.

A few years ago I was at the house of a friend when I met two well-dressed young men who introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries. I thought it was strange that they had come all the way to Italy to convert people who already believed in the Savior.
I later asked them to come to my house. “If you want, you can come see me for a cultural exchange,” I said. “But don’t think I’m going to change religions.”
When we met the next night, the missionaries spoke of the Book of Mormon. I thought it strange that I had never heard of it before. I invited them back, but after the second visit my wife, Anna Maria, decided they were crazy and would leave the house during our discussions. The missionaries seemed a little unusual to me as well, but I was curious to know what they had to say and continued to meet with them.
One night when Anna Maria came home, she heard us talking about eternal marriage. This greatly interested her, and we decided that we would start the discussions again together. She had a great knowledge of the scriptures and always had a long list of questions. The elders answered some of them right away, but others they had to go home and research. Each week without fail they returned with responses, and each week Anna Maria had another list of questions.
Shortly after we had finished the discussions, Anna Maria surprised me by asking for my permission to be baptized. I told her I had nothing against it if she was truly converted. I attended her baptism on March 5, 1995, enjoying a wonderful feeling during the service.
I continued to read extensively about the Church, and the missionaries continued to encourage me. Finally I decided to put Moroni’s promise to the test (see Moroni 10:4–5). I wanted to know whether the Book of Mormon came from God or whether it was just a nice novel.
One day in June 1995 while I was alone at home, I knelt at the foot of my bed and asked Heavenly Father, “Is the Book of Mormon true, and if so, when should I be baptized?” Suddenly I felt in my heart and in my mind a clear voice that told me, “The Book of Mormon is true.” I then had a clear impression when to be baptized. A week later I prayed again and received the same answer. My heart was bursting with joy. I now knew that God had spoken to me: the Book of Mormon was inspired of God and Joseph Smith was a true prophet.
Finally, on September 17, 1995, I entered the waters of baptism, a year and a half since I started meeting with the missionaries. Soon our daughter, Aba Chiara, became interested in the Church and was also baptized. In January 1997 our family was sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple.
We know that this is the true Church, governed by Jesus Christ through a prophet and the priesthood. We are thankful to the Lord for His love, for leading us to the missionaries, and for our knowledge of the gospel.

After failed attempts by several organizations, clean water gushed from a 600-foot-deep borehole, donated by LDS Charities to the community of Agulu Obeleagu Umunna. The project in Enugu State is one of many completed by LDS Charities, the humanitarian arm of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During the commissioning ceremony, Dr. C.O.C. Egumgbe, Commissioner for Water Resources, representing State Governor, the Right Honorable, Ifeanyi Ugwuanyi, thanked LDS Charities for their contributions to the development of the State.
“Water is life,” said Egumgbe. “Whoever brings water to the people, brings life and joy to the people.”
President-General, Victor Udeani, of Agulu Umuna Development Union, expressed gratitude to LDS Charities for serving his community through the provision of clean water.
Engineer Udeani recounted the various failed attempts at constructing a functional borehole saying, “We have seen today, that with God, nothing is impossible. We thank LDS Charities for their tireless work.”

I honestly believe that when the scriptures say, “Remember, remember” (Helaman 5:12), they mean that we should not just remember Jesus Christ or remember that we once felt His Light. We must feel His Light now and feel it again and again. That is what one young man, Eric, discovered when he first read the Book of Mormon.

After moving to a new place and starting high school, Eric struggled in his classes and found it hard to fit in. He also began to wonder if he had a testimony.

“I began to seriously read the Book of Mormon for the first time in my life,” Eric said. “I read and prayed every day.”

When Eric prayed and asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon is true, he was sure he was going to get an answer, but nothing happened.

Sometime later, while walking through the woods behind his house, Eric asked again. This time, he had an impression, as if Heavenly Father asked him, “Eric, what has happened in your life since you started reading the Book of Mormon and praying every day?”

Eric thought about how he had made good friends and was doing better in school. Without realizing it, the Book of Mormon had brought light and power into his life.

Then it happened.

“I didn’t hear a voice,” Eric said, “but the Spirit filled my heart as these words came to my mind: ‘Of course, it’s true!’ An overwhelming feeling of peace, joy, and assurance came over me. I knew I had finally found my answer.”2

In closing, I share an experience of a dear friend who served as a stake president of a neighboring stake: One year we had a regional training for stake presidents with Elder Quentin L. Cook. Me and my dear friend both arrived early for the meeting. We were very excited about this training with Elder Cook. As we waited for our meeting to start, somehow, we got into a discussion of how we were called as stake presidents. He told me the Lord revealed to him that he was going to be stake president while he was still serving as a bishop. He told his family about these promptings. Well, eventually there was a reorganization of the stake presidency, but he wasn’t called. He was a bit perplexed and wondered why he had received those promptings. Later on, as he was serving as the ward Young Men president, there was another change in the stake presidency. And again, he had those same promptings that he was going to be stake president. But this time, he reluctantly told his wife about the promptings, and she was the only person he told. A ward Young Men president normally did not get an interview with the General Authority assigned to seek the Lord’s will on who will be the next stake president. But there was a mix up in the paperwork and they accidentally scheduled an interview for my friend. The General Authority told the then stake president that it was okay and that they would still give my friend an interview. Well, this time he was called as stake president. He told me it was a tender mercy from the Lord, because the Lord knew Him. The Lord knew that he needed time. He needed time to digest things. The Lord was mindful of him personally as the Lord prepared this great brother to serve as stake president.

The Lord’s promptings and revelations may not always come in the time or in the way that we expect. But, if we are worthy they always come in the best time and in the best way for us because our Heavenly Father is all knowing and all powerful, but most importantly, His divine love is perfect and pure.

I guess I was about seven when Mom told me that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Maybe she had told me earlier, but I don’t remember that. (I was very young when I was born.)
“So, if I really want something, and if I’m a really good boy, and I ask for it—Heavenly Father will give it to me?”
“That’s right, son. If your faith is very strong, and if it’s for your own good, he’ll give it to you.”
That hot summer night in 1944 I lay in bed thinking about what I wanted most from Heavenly Father. Another brother? Maybe. A new baseball? I’d probably get one for my birthday anyway. How about an end to the war and my dad coming home? Yes. But Mom was working hard on that one with her prayers.
And then it came to me—the one single, most critical, most desirable, most longed for, most important thing in all the world to my seven-year-old heart: I wanted to fly … like a bird.
And why not? Birds flew. Bats flew. P-51s flew. Kites and paper airplanes and bugs and butterflies flew. Why not me?
How the other kids would envy me! How Miss Gamble would gasp with astonishment and admiration! And wouldn’t Joey Hirschberger next door just turn bright green with envy?
Taking care not to wake my little brother, Lynn, I slid out of bed and dropped to my knees. I folded my arms (like Mom), and squeezed my eyes shut (unlike Lynn). Then I clenched my teeth (a sure sign of great faith) and scrunched up my face (for intensity), and uttered my first all-alone-by-myself, out-loud prayer:
“Heavenly Father, I want to fly. I really, really, really want to fly. Won’t you please bless me so that I can fly? I’ll be a really good boy if you’ll help me to fly. Honest. Amen.”
Then I got off my knees, pulled my chair to the center of the darkened room, and climbed up on the chair. Extending my arms out wide, I whispered it again: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to fly. Mom said you could do it. I know you can do it.”
With this, I began to flap my arms furiously. Up and down, up and down, faster, faster.
You can probably guess what happened: My arms got tired.
I sat down and thought about it. Maybe I was missing something important. Maybe what I needed was to jump off the chair while I flapped my arms.
I climbed back up on the chair. This time I flapped my arms really hard and then jumped off the chair, upward, outward.
And downward. Thump! Soon Mother appeared at the door, wondering what had caused all the noise.
The next day I pondered the problem until I thought I had it figured out: Heavenly Father must be testing my faith. Maybe the secret was to pray for several nights in a row and to grit my teeth harder and to scrunch up my face tighter while I prayed.
I tried it. Each night for a week I prayed and prayed, my faith and fervor growing. By Sunday night I was sure that I was ready.
Back up on the chair, arms extended, I once more whispered my plea to the Lord, absolutely sure that he would hear and answer my prayer and grant me flight.
My arms began to flap up and down, faster, faster. I jumped upward and outward.
And downward. Thump! Again I was questioned about the loud thump from the upstairs bedroom.
What was missing? I had gritted my teeth and scrunched my face. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t I soared from the chair and flapped around the room? I lay in bed for a long time thinking, wondering.
The next day I was down in the foxhole-fort-dugout-clubhouse on the shady side of the garage when I heard Mom calling me.
Blackberries. I had promised to pick the berries from the huge wild blackberry bush behind the garage. But it was hot, and I didn’t feel like fighting the vicious brambles and thorns of August to ensure jam next January.
Just for a moment, I pretended I hadn’t heard her. That’s when the inspiration came: How could I expect the Lord to give me flight if I couldn’t give Mom a few minutes for an errand?
From that moment, I became an errand boy possessed. I not only picked blackberries, I chopped kindling wood. I filled the wood box. I swept the porch. I set the table and went to the store. And then I picked more blackberries until my arms and hands were scratched and bleeding from the thorns.
I wore Mom out with demands for more and more errands. How could the Lord deny me now? I had prayed with all my might for two weeks, had exercised enormous faith, had filled my days with good works and gallon buckets of blackberries. Surely, my first flight was now at hand!
That night I mentioned all of this to the Lord in my prayer, then climbed back onto the chair in my darkened bedroom. This time … This time … This time it will work!
It didn’t work. The upward, outward curve again continued into the downward curve, ending in the by now familiar thump. Sure enough, Mother soon appeared at the door, warning me not to awaken Lynn.
I was stumped. For all my prayers and all my faith and all my good works, I remained as earthbound as Joey Hirschberger or Jimmy Johnson. What could be missing?
Without ever mentioning my desire to fly, I put the problem of unanswered prayers to my Sunday School teacher. What followed was a lesson on how to pray and how Heavenly Father answers prayers. And there was the answer. I marveled that I had missed it: I had failed to trust utterly and completely in the Lord.
Up until now, I had jumped off a low chair—a chair low enough that if the flapping didn’t work, I at least wouldn’t break my neck. The Lord must be waiting for me to show real faith by jumping off of something high enough that failure would hurt. That would prove my faith!
And beyond that, I had always made my attempts in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. Next time I would prove real faith by jumping off of something really high—and with an audience and in broad daylight.
All the next week I prepared. The faith, the prayers, the endless helpfulness to Mom continued. By Saturday afternoon I was ready.
Down in the fort I explained my project to Lynn and Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson. I explained about faith and good works. I explained about the kind of prayers where you grit your teeth and scrunch up your face. I explained about having to risk yourself to show that you trust the Lord absolutely.
And then I started up the ladder to the roof of the garage. Lynn and Jimmy and Joey remained in the fort watching and wondering.
Joey said he thought I was crazy. But what did Joey know about faith and works and prayers?
And now I was on the roof of the garage, looking down. It seemed farther from the roof to the ground than it had appeared the other way around.
Directly below me was the terrible blackberry bush. It looked higher and wider than it ever had from the ground. Great long guard brambles covered with vicious thorns reached up almost to where I stood.
I fought down the doubting thought: “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t fly? What if I land in the blackberry bush?” But one mustn’t doubt! The entire effort might fail if one doubted!
For doubt is the opposite of faith. Simple logic dictated that if one removed his protection from the awful blackberry thorns that would prove absolute, unshakable faith.
Off came the shirt. Joey said he thought that was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen, and he was going to tell my mom.
I told Joey to sit down and be quiet, but he left to tell Mom anyway. Now I had to hurry!
I closed my eyes and reminded the Lord about how he answers prayers of faith and how if someone wants something badly enough and is a good boy and helps his mom and goes to Sunday School, his prayers will be answered.
That done, I began to flap my arms, faster and faster. Then, eyes still closed tight, I jumped upward and outward from the roof of the garage—upward and outward over a huge wild blackberry bush—with no shirt on.
Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was lying on my back on the kitchen table. Doc Nichols was just leaving, saying something about how you couldn’t possibly break a bone jumping into an overgrown “pillow”—even if it was covered with stickers. I could feel the cool washcloth as Mother continued washing the blood from my dozens of scratches and cuts.
After Doc Nichols left, Mom chased out all the small, wide-eyed spectators, and I opened my eyes. I saw that my mother’s arms and hands and face were covered with dozens of scratches—and realized the price she had paid to rescue me.
She smiled her special tender smile and held me close in her arms. “For injuries sustained in battle, I award you the purple heart,” she said quietly, “and maybe a bronze star for bravery.”
“Do you have a medal for dumbness?” I asked. “I feel so stupid!”
“I suppose we all feel that way sometimes,” Mother replied. “We make mistakes, we learn from them, and then we go on.”
There was a long pause before I asked the question: “You said Heavenly Father answers prayers …”
Mom finished the sentence: “And now you’re not really sure if he does answer prayers.” Somehow Mom always knew what I was thinking.
“Of course he hears and answers prayers,” she said—and I could tell she really meant it. “Only sometimes we pray for things that aren’t good for us. Sometimes we forget to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ And sometimes his answer is a quiet, firm no. But no is an answer, too, isn’t it, son? He can’t always say yes, can he? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess so. But, Mom, I wanted so much to fly! And I tried so hard!”
“Someday, son, when your dad comes home from the Navy, you’ll have the answer to your prayers. You and Dad can go to the airport and pay for a half-hour flight. There are many ways Heavenly Father could give you a yes answer to your prayers for flight. But it won’t come through flapping your arms and jumping off garages into blackberry bushes.”
By now all the bleeding had stopped, a small bandage over each cut and scratch. As she turned to tending her own wounds, Mother smiled at me and pretended to be stern, “And speaking of jumping off of garages into blackberry bushes: Young man, if you ever do that again, I’ll take away your purple heart and give you a dishonorable discharge!”
A voice interrupted my daydreaming. “We are on our final approach to Hamburg International. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Funny about that childish prayer for flight all those years ago. For a while it had seemed that Heavenly Father didn’t really answer prayers. My answer hadn’t come just then when I had wanted it so badly. It had come later—flying over Portland in a biplane with Dad. And with the other Scouts in pursuit of a merit badge. And then aboard a huge jet en route to the Germany Hamburg Mission. Funny how the answers always seem to come—though not always at the time or in the way we expect.
I fastened my seat belt and let a little prayer run through my mind: “I thank thee, Father, for hearing and answering the prayer of a seven-year-old boy. I thank thee for giving me flight.”

One winter’s morning during a snowstorm, I took my mother to have some blood tests done. It was “white-knuckle” driving on snowy, icy roads. We were headed home and going around a corner very slowly. The car hit black ice, and as if in slow motion, we headed for the curb. THUNK! I quickly asked Mom, “Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
We continued cautiously, slowly.
Then I said in an oh-so-sarcastic kind of way, “So I suppose you’re going to sue me for whiplash.” Instantly she jumped in, moaning and holding her neck. “Oh . . . ohhhhhh . . . oh, my neck hurts. . . . Oh, I can’t move my head. . . . Oh dear, I have to call . . .” and she tried to say the name of one of the lawyers who advertises on TV. (“One call . . . that’s all!”) It was so spontaneous and so hilarious that we both laughed until we were screaming.
We eventually came up for air, but Mom kept the fun going for days, calling me, moaning and whining about her whiplash the minute I’d answer.
I’m so grateful for what I have learned from my parents about being cheerful, lighthearted, and—yes—sometimes silly.

Stepping inside for a drink, I noticed Pa’s picture on the easel by the bay window where Ma had always kept it. He still presided over the family even though he had been gone for years. I thought of Pa’s goodness and my mind reached backward. I remembered how I’d spread myself wide—couldn’t have been more than ten—trying to keep up with his long legs striding through the cane fields at irrigating time.
One day as we watched the water shimmering like quicksilver through the furrows, I had slipped my hand into Pa’s and looked up into his smiling eyes and asked, “Pa, are we rich?”
He chuckled. “Yes, son, we’re rich in all that matters.”
“What matters?”
He tousled my hair. “Loving the Lord and putting your trust in Him matters, and loving your family and neighbors.” Dropping to one knee he gave me a hug that almost knocked the breath out of me. Then he said, “Son, you matter.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and his hearty laugh mattered too.

Bishop Romney is here to talk to us about tithing.
Who knows what tithing is?
It’s money we give to Heavenly Father!
That’s right! We share 10 percent of what we receive with Heavenly Father.
Why do we have to give our money away?
Tithing money is used for lots of things, like building churches and temples and helping the missionaries.
If it sounds hard to give away your money, this might help. Pretend this is a peach pie. Who wants the pie?
Me! I do!
OK. I’ll give you the whole pie! Now would you give me just one piece of it back?
Sure! You’re the one who gave me the pie.
This slice of pie is like tithing. Heavenly Father gives us everything we have. He just asks for us to give one slice back to Him.
The next Sunday …
Is this your tithing, Maya?
Yes. Heavenly Father gave me all that I have, so I’m giving Him a piece of my pie!
This story took place in the USA.

I had the privilege to serve as the secretary of my deacons quorum. I recall the many assignments we members of that quorum had the opportunity to fill. Passing the sacred sacrament, collecting the monthly fast offerings, and looking after one another come readily to mind. The most frightening one, however, happened at the leadership session of our ward conference. The member of our stake presidency who was presiding called on a number of the ward officers to speak. They did so. Then, without the slightest warning, he stood and said, “We will now call on one of our younger ward officers, Thomas S. Monson, secretary of the deacons quorum, to give us an accounting of his service and to bear his testimony.” I don’t remember a single thing I said, but I have never forgotten the experience or the lesson that it taught me. It was the Apostle Peter who said, “Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you.”5
In an earlier generation, the Lord gave this promise to holders of the priesthood: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”6
This is not a time for fear, brethren, but rather a time for faith—a time for each of us who holds the priesthood to be his best self.

That fall, Joseph’s parents traveled south to Harmony. Nearly two months had passed since Joseph left their home in Manchester, and they had heard nothing from him. They worried the summer’s tragedies had devastated him. In a matter of weeks, he had lost his first child, nearly lost his wife, and lost the manuscript pages. They wanted to make sure he and Emma were well.
Less than a mile from their destination, Joseph Sr. and Lucy were overjoyed to see Joseph standing in the road ahead of them, looking calm and happy. He told them about losing the confidence of God, repenting of his sins, and receiving the revelation. The Lord’s rebuke had stung him, but like prophets of old he wrote the revelation down for others to read. It was the first time he had ever recorded the Lord’s word to him.
Joseph also told his parents that Moroni had since returned the plates and interpreters. The angel seemed pleased, Joseph recounted. “He told me that the Lord loved me for my faithfulness and humility.”
The record was now safely stowed in the house, hidden in a trunk. “Emma writes for me now,” Joseph told them, “but the angel said that the Lord would send someone to write for me, and I trust that it will be so.”7

My grandma was driving and I was in the passenger seat playing a game on my phone when suddenly my grandma shouted, “Oh no!” I looked up and saw a truck bouncing again and again against the guardrail along the side of the road, as if the driver were steering directly into it. We could have just passed the truck and kept driving, but instead, we followed at a safe distance to see where the truck would eventually stop. We watched in horror as it eventually veered off the road and down a slope, finally coming to a stop.
I called the emergency number. Once the ambulance was on the way, we went down to check on the driver. It was a young man. He couldn’t stand and said that he had not been feeling well all day and was trying to get home. We thought he’d had some type of seizure, so we stayed with him until the ambulance arrived.

I first met Sally Pilobello in the Philippines in 1972 when I was sent there as a health missionary. I learned that she and her husband had lost their first baby when the baby was five months old. Sally had other children, but she now was pregnant with another and asked me, “What can I do to have a healthy Mormon baby?” I thought of her courage and faith as she responded to truth and adopted some new habits and traditions. Soon people in the neighborhood were sharing the news: “Mormon baby is coming!”

On 20 January 1973, Sarah Pilobello was born—a healthy, beautiful “Mormon baby.” Her mother’s pioneer spirit had enabled her to do things she had not done before—to add more truth to what she already knew. Sally used to smile at me and say, “Sister, you can never teach an old dog new tricks.” Then she’d pause and add: “But Sister, I am not a dog!”

In 1984 I received a letter from eleven-year-old Sarah—“Little Melon” to her family and friends: “I’m sorry that I have not written for a long time because every time I’m going to start my letter my playmates are insisting me to play with them. Now I firmly decided to write to you. We are glad that Mommy is doing what the family preparedness program of the welfare missionaries taught them. We now purify our water and have a balanced diet. That is why we grow faster than the other children. The temple is now being made and I hope I’ll see you there. I love you. Little Melon.”

I also received a letter from her mother, my dear friend Sally: “I want to express my gratitude for the things I have learned which are making such a difference in my family. I realize now that some of the things my mother taught me—things her mother taught her—were not correct. But the truths I’m learning will now be taught to my children, and to their children, and to the generations to come. We will not be damned any longer by ignorance. ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free!’ As they say, it is never too late to learn and change. God must love us dearly to allow us to have so much truth.”

I had the privilege of seeing this on a grand scale in the U.S. Senate, where there is normally an imbalance between the show horses and the work horses. I can vividly remember standing next to Lyndon Johnson, then majority leader, one day in a Senate chamber anteroom as we both read the ticker tape with a news story about a major bill coming out of a Senate committee after months of labor. One senator, who had not been attending the sessions while the hearings were being held and the tedious testimony was being taken, had managed, nevertheless, to show up the very day the bill was reported out of committee to take his bows before waiting TV cameras. He was one of those senators who would show up for the opening of an envelope. The man at my side, later to become president, profaned in his disgust for the show horse senator, declaring that the show horse senator was also a lazy liberal who let other liberals do the work while he took the bows.

So often in human affairs I have learned the many depend upon the few to lead, to set the pace, to show the way, to deal with the detail.

My mother’s father, Grandfather Thomas Condie, also taught me a powerful lesson which involved this same Old Bob, who came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his 80s when the house in which he rented a room was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front-porch swing of my grandfather. With a plaintive voice, he said to Grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have little money.” I wondered how Grandfather would answer.

We just kept rocking the swing. Then Grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it an old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob.

Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move your things in. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay, and nobody will ever put you out again.”

Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood 10 feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has had a powerful influence on my life.

“Do you know where I met Martin?” she asked them, coming to the kitchen entrance to talk. “At the five and ten store in Missoula. I was only 18 then. He was home from the army on a 30-day leave. It was a couple of days before Valentine Day, and I was working at the jewelry counter. After about a half an hour, he finally picked out something. He thrust it into my hand, paid for it, and asked if I’d gift wrap it. Well I did, but when I gave it to him, he just looked down, shook his head, gave it back, and mumbled, ‘It’s for you.’ And that was the beginning. Since he was going overseas in just a few weeks, we ended up getting married before he left.”
They listened to the records while they ate their snack.
“When Martin came back from the war, he worked at various jobs for a few years, and then we got a chance to get this place. It had belonged to his father. We’ve been here ever since.”
After the last record on the stack had played, she showed them the necklace. It was a tiny chain with a small silver heart in the middle. “I think it cost all of two dollars. Oh, there’s an inscription on the back. Can you still read it?”
“It says, ‘Love is forever.’” Cathy slowly read the worn inscription.
“I haven’t thought about that necklace for years.”