Gospel Story Finder

Children can provide wonderful and often humorous insights into life. We have in our family identical ten-year-old twin sons. In some circumstances they are practically impossible to tell apart.

Recently we moved and found ourselves in new surroundings. Several days later I was talking to Aaron, one of the twins, and inquired about the big bump he had on his forehead. He described it this way. “Well, Dad, Lincoln [who is his older brother] was chasing me down the hall. I ran around the corner, and I saw my twin brother, Adam. Now, I knew I could outrun Adam, so I just kept running.” It turns out he ran into a full-length mirror!

Weeks later their farm sold, and her family joined several others in a small wagon train. With Brother Brigham leading the way, they started on their journey to Kirtland.
The wagons traveled slowly, and baby Anna got sick. Just when Mary Ann thought that they’d never get to Kirtland, Brother Reed ran alongside their wagon. “Kirtland’s just around the bend!”
The people urged their tired oxen on. Mary Ann bounced up and down on the wagon seat. Then she jumped down and ran ahead with the other children. As she turned the corner in the road, her heart sank. Where were all the beautiful buildings? Where was the temple Brother Reed had talked about? Kirtland was just a raw frontier town.
She plodded back to her parents. “I don’t like Kirtland,” she told them. “It’s ugly.”
Her mother smiled at her. “It’s just not finished yet. It’ll be beautiful some day. We’ll help to make it so.”
Brother Reed came and took Mary Ann by the hand. “Come with me.” He took her along a dirt road past a store and around the corner to the edge of a field. “This is where we will build the house of the Lord. When it is finished, it will be shiny and white and wonderful! It will be a fit place for the Lord.”
Mary Ann felt that sweet feeling she now recognized as the Holy Ghost. Maybe things weren’t what she expected, and maybe it would be hard to build a home again, but she knew that her family was doing what was right.
She looked at the field. It might be a long time before the temple was built, but it would be a temple of the Lord!

Kim was excited about family home evening. Grandma and Grandpa were coming to stay for a visit, and they were going to share a special lesson.
Grandma and Grandpa arrived at Kim’s house on Monday afternoon. Kim, Cody, Kate, and even baby Connor could hardly wait for family home evening.
Grandma started the lesson with a question: “What does it mean to go the extra mile?”
Kim, Cody, and Kate thought and thought. They didn’t know.
Mom spoke up. “If someone asks you to go one mile with them, you would go two miles.”
“If the bishop asks us to help someone, we can do what he asks us to do and then see if there is something more that needs to be done,” Dad said.
“I get it!” Cody said. “If Mama asked me to clean my room, I could clean up the living room too. And go the extra mile!”
“Great examples,” Grandma said. “Do you have any more ideas?”
Kim said, “If Mama asks me to watch Connor while she fixes dinner, I could play with him instead of just watching him.”
“If Mama asks me to water the plants, I could put water in Toby’s dog dish too,” Kate said.
“If Daddy asks me to carry a bag of groceries, I could go back and carry another bag,” Cody said.
“I love your ideas!” Grandma said.
“Grandpa hasn’t said anything,” Kim said. “What could you do to go the extra mile, Grandpa?”
Grandpa thought for a few seconds. “If Grandma asks me to eat one cookie, I could eat two cookies,” he said.
Kim laughed. “Oh, Grandpa, you are so silly,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Grandpa asked. “Don’t you think it would be going the extra mile to eat two cookies instead of just one?”
Kim, Cody, and Kate laughed.
Grandma laughed too. Then she asked everyone to remember the lesson and go the extra mile whenever they could.
After Grandma and Grandpa’s visit was over, they went back to their own home. Grandma called Kim, Cody, and Kate every once in a while to see what they were doing to go the extra mile.

Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokahama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.
It was a very chilly night. The railroad station, what there was left of it, was very cold. Starving children were sleeping in the corners. That was a common sight in Japan in those days. The fortunate ones had a newspaper or a few old rags to fend off the cold.
On that train, I slept restlessly. The berths were too short anyway. In the bleak, chilly hours of the dawn, the train stopped at a station along the way. I heard a tapping on the window and raised the blind. There on the platform stood a little boy tapping on the window with a tin can. I knew he was an orphan and a beggar; the tin can was the symbol of their suffering. Sometimes they carried a spoon as well, as if to say, “I am hungry; feed me.”
He might have been six or seven years old. His little body was thin with starvation. He had a thin, ragged shirtlike kimono, nothing else. His head was shingled with scabs. His one jaw was swollen—perhaps from an abscessed tooth. Around his head he had tied a filthy rag with a knot on top of his head—a pathetic gesture of treatment.
When I saw him and he saw that I was awake, he waved his can. He was begging. In pity, I thought, “How can I help him?” Then I remembered. I had money, Japanese money. I quickly groped for my clothing and found some yen notes in my pocket. I tried to open the window. But it was stuck. I slipped on my trousers and hurried to the end of the car. He stood outside expectantly. As I pushed at the resistant door, the train pulled away from the station. Through the dirty windows I could see him, holding that rusty tin can, with the dirty rag around his swollen jaw.
There I stood, an officer from a conquering army, heading home to a family and a future. There I stood, half-dressed, clutching some money which he had seen but which I could not get to him. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. The only comfort I draw is that I did want to help him.
That was 38 years ago, but I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Perhaps I was scarred by that experience. If so, it is a battle scar, a worthy one, for which I bear no shame. It reminds me of my duty!

Katie danced into the kitchen, where her brother, Jack sat at the table. “What are you doing?” she asked as she twirled on her toes.
“I’m writing a thank-you note to Uncle Ed,” Jack told her. “He gave me his old stamp collection.”
“I want to write a thank-you note too.”
“That would be nice, but since tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, why don’t you make valentines, instead?” her brother suggested.
Katie twirled again while she thought about that. Then she started smiling. “I have another idea,” she told Jack. Then she hurried off to her bedroom.
Katie found her colored paper and markers. She got her scissors and glue. She took some white paper and cut out five wide heart-shaped ruffles. Then she glued each one on a piece of red paper. On the first one, she drew trees on one side of the ruffle and a letter carrier waving on the other side. In the middle, she printed “Thank You, from Katie.” Next, she made one with striped balls around the ruffle, and one with a piano on each side of the ruffle. The last one she made had checkerboard squares around the ruffle. All the heart centers said, “Thank You, from Katie.”
Katie put the valentine with the striped balls into her dad’s shoe. He always played catch with her.
She put the one with the pianos into her mom’s coat pocket. Mom played the piano with Katie, and they sang songs.
She slipped the checkerboard ruffle valentine inside Jack’s desk. He was teaching her how to play checkers.
She put the last ruffled heart into their mailbox. The letter carrier always waved to her as he walked by.
Early the next morning, Katie’s dad started to get ready for work. He felt sleepy and a little cranky. When he grabbed his shoes, Katie’s thank-you valentine tumbled out. Dad looked at the striped ball and smiled because he liked to play catch with Katie. He read the thank-you in the middle and smiled again. He started whistling.
In the afternoon, Mom had to go grocery shopping. She snatched her shopping list and hurried out the door. She was in such a rush that she didn’t even wave to their neighbor, Mrs. James. But when Mom put the shopping list into her pocket, she found Katie’s thank-you valentine. She looked at the pianos on the ruffle and smiled. She read the message and smiled again. Then she stopped to show Mrs. James the special thank-you valentine and asked if she needed anything from the store.
An icy wind nipped at the letter carrier’s cheeks as he walked down Katie’s street. When he put some letters into Katie’s mailbox, her thank-you valentine blew out. He caught it and looked at the pictures. He read the message and smiled. Then he waved to Katie and smiled all the way down the street.
After school, Jack sighed as he went to his room to work on his math homework. Numbers mixed him up, and he wanted to eat supper. Jack opened his desk to get a pencil, and Katie’s thank-you valentine popped out. Jack looked at the checkerboard ruffle and smiled. He read the thank-you in the center and smiled again as he began figuring out his math problems.
Later, Jack found Katie feeding her goldfish. “I like my thank-you valentine,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Of course! Everyone likes it when someone remembers to say thank you. Now, how about a game of checkers?”
“Sure!” Katie danced off to get the game.

He returned with an assignment from his mission president to give a report to the First Presidency on the condition of the mission. He was scheduled to spend just a few minutes with President Heber J. Grant and his counselors, but the meeting lasted much longer. As it turned out in the months ahead, that report to the First Presidency was a job interview as well.
A new committee of the Twelve was organized to bring to missionary work the power of the latest means of communication. Gordon was to serve as producer and secretary for the Church Radio, Publicity, and Mission Literature Committee. This was, in fact, the beginning of the public communications office in the Church. His plans to go to the university would be put aside. His career as a seminary teacher, for he taught part-time when he returned from his mission, would be replaced. The committee included six members of the Twelve, with Elder Stephen L. Richards as chairman.
There was an empty office available, but no furniture at the moment. Being resourceful, he went to a former missionary companion whose father sold office furniture and came away with a shaky reject table. One leg was short; that could be fixed with a block of wood. The top was warped and split a little; that could be ignored. He brought his typewriter from home and began a career that would take him to the ordination of an Apostle and to the First Presidency of the Church.

I don’t look anything like my mother. I am short, muscular, and athletic, with my father’s dark eyes and curly hair. She is tall and thin, with long wispy hair, full lips and round eyes. She is the type of woman with color-coordinated fingernail polish. I never wear fingernail polish. First thing, the smell gives me a headache. Second thing, I also have my father’s hands: short and stubby and masculine. Polish just makes them look silly and fake, and I feel like I’m my 12-year-old sister, who tries way too hard to look chic by wearing blue eyeshadow. Besides, my left hand got slammed in a van door when I was 12 years old—at my first Mutual activity, in fact—and now my ring finger and my pinkie are permanently crooked. So, as you can see, fingernail polish has never really been my thing. Neither have Mutual activities.
Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.
My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.
So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.
“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.
“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”
I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.
I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.
As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.
When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.
Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.
Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.
For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.
He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.
“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.
“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”
I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.
“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.
“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”
John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.
The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.
At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.
The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.
I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.
“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

I remember as a child listening to the testimonies given by adults in my ward. Those testimonies entered my heart and inspired my soul. Wherever I go throughout the world—no matter the language, no matter the culture—I thrill to hear the testimonies of the Saints.
Recently, I received a letter from our grandson who is a missionary. He wrote that members “who are reading scriptures and praying are more willing to share the gospel.”
I believe he’s right. The more we study the scriptures and pray, the more likely we can enthusiastically share our testimonies of the gospel with others.
Remember, Church members who receive a testimony of the gospel are under covenant “to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.” It is clear we have a sacred obligation to obtain referrals for our missionaries. Witnesses have a special knowledge and are to bear testimony of “that which they have seen and heard and most assuredly believe.” We make simple, clear, direct statements that we know with certainty and surety that the gospel is true because it has been “made known unto [us] by the Holy Spirit of God.” In bearing such a testimony, speaking by the power of the Holy Ghost, we are promised that “the Holy Ghost shall be shed forth in bearing record unto all things whatsoever [we] shall say.” We are blessed personally when we so testify.
President Boyd K. Packer said: “A testimony is to be found in the bearing of it. Somewhere in your quest for spiritual knowledge, there is that ‘leap of faith,’ as the philosophers call it. It is the moment when you have gone to the edge of the light and step into the darkness to discover that the way is lighted ahead for just a footstep or two.”
Making a determined and confident public statement of your belief is such a step into the unknown. It has a powerful effect in strengthening your own convictions. Bearing testimony drives your faith deeper into your soul, and you believe more fervently than before.
To those who faithfully bear testimony, the Lord said, “Ye are blessed, for the testimony which ye have borne is recorded in heaven for the angels to look upon; and they rejoice over you, and your sins are forgiven you.” I have tried to follow this counsel to bear testimony.
May I tell you how I gained a testimony of the truth and divine nature of this great latter-day work? I’m afraid my experience isn’t very dramatic. It is not a story of heavenly hosannas or thundering shouts. It is not a story of lightning, fire, or flood.
But I have always known the reality and goodness of God.
From my earliest memories it was there—a sure and abiding testimony of this great work. Sometimes that assurance comes when we feel the love of the Savior when we meet His servants. I remember when I was just five years old and my family moved into a new ward. That first Sunday, Bishop Charles E. Forsberg, who was born in Sweden, came up to me and called me by name. I knew then.
During the cold and gray days of the Great Depression I remember a wonderful servant of the Savior by the name of C. Perry Erickson. Brother Erickson, a contractor, had a difficult time finding work. He could have shut himself up. He could have become bitter and angry. He could have given up. Instead, when I was 12 he was my Scoutmaster. He spent countless hours helping me and others my age to learn, to grow, and to approach every difficulty with confidence and optimism. Without exception, every one of C. Perry Erickson’s Scouts received an Eagle award. I knew then.
Yes, the testimonies of priesthood leaders and faithful ward members helped me to know.
I remember the words of my mother and father. I remember their expressions of faith and love for their Heavenly Father. I knew then.
I knew the reality of the Savior’s compassion when, at the request of my father, the bishop of the ward, I delivered food and clothing to the widows and poor of the ward.
I knew, when as a young father, my wife and I gathered our children around us and expressed our gratitude to our Heavenly Father for our many blessings.
I knew last April, when I heard from this pulpit the words of our prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, who called Jesus his friend, exemplar, leader, Savior, and King.
President Hinckley said: “Through giving His life in pain and unspeakable suffering, He has reached down to lift me and each of us and all the sons and daughters of God from the abyss of eternal darkness following death. He has provided something better—a sphere of light and understanding, growth and beauty.”
Now, I would like to bear my testimony—I know that Joseph Smith saw what he said he saw, that the heavens opened and God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to an unlearned youth reared in the backwoods of New York.
As a special witness of the name of Jesus Christ in all the world, I promise you that if you seek the Lord, you will find Him. Ask, and you shall receive.
I pray that you may do so and testify to the ends of the earth that the gospel of our Lord and Savior is restored to man! In the name of my friend, my exemplar, my Savior and King, Jesus Christ, amen.

With the permission of President Jeffrey Holland and his lovely daughter, Mary, I’d like to share their story of several years ago. It is an example of what I have tried to say today—not truth in theory, but truth in action.
Brother Holland begins:
“One night I came home quite late from work. My nine-year-old daughter Mary seemed visibly distressed. … I asked if she felt all right; she nodded that she did; but I guessed otherwise. I waited as she got ready for bed. Sure enough, she walked softly into the living room and said, ‘Daddy, I have to talk to you.’ I held her hand and, as we walked into her bedroom, she started to cry.
“‘I was at Grand Central this morning and saw a ladies’ compact I knew Mother would love. I was sure it was quite expensive, but I picked it up just to admire it.’ More tears and struggle to get it all said: ‘It fell out of my hands onto the floor. I quickly picked it up, but Daddy, the mirror was cracked. I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t have enough money to pay for it, and I was all alone. … I put the compact back on the shelf and left the store. Oh, Daddy, I think I’ve been dishonest.’ And then she wept and wept.
“I held her in my arms as that little nine-year-old body shook with the pain of sin being expelled. She said, ‘I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t say my prayers. What will I do? I won’t ever get it out of my mind.’
“Well, Mother joined us and we talked quite a while that night. We told her that we were very, very proud of her honesty … and we would have been disappointed if she had been able to eat or sleep very well. I told her … the compact probably wouldn’t cost too much, and that we would go back to the store manager, tell him of the problem, and, between the two of us, cover the cost. If the compact was still there, [perhaps we could] buy it for Mom. That little cracked mirror could be a reminder for as long as she owned it that her little girl was unfailingly honest and spiritually sensitive. …
“The tears gradually stopped, her little body began to relax, and Mary said, ‘I think now I can say my prayers.’” (“The Excellence of the Actors,” unpublished manuscript, BYU faculty assembly, 1978.)

When I was about 12 years old, I saw a Church movie that showed President Lorenzo Snow (1814–1901) praying for Latter-day Saints in St. George, Utah, USA, who were suffering from severe drought.
“Lord,” President Snow prayed, “bless the good people of St. George.”
That phrase, “the good people of St. George,” left a lasting impression on my young mind. Since I lived in Chile, I tried to imagine what kind of faithful Saints “the good people of St. George” must be. I wanted to meet them.
More than 30 years later, in 2005, my family and I took our second son to Provo, Utah, to join his brother, who was studying at Brigham Young University. The evening after we arrived, I said, “I want to go see the good people of St. George.”
“But, Papá,” my oldest son protested, “St. George is far away.”
“Look,” I replied, “Papá paid for the plane tickets. Papá is paying for the food. Papá is paying for the gas. Papá wants only one thing for himself. He wants to meet the good people of St. George!”
“OK,” my son said after he realized I was serious.
The next day we made the 260-mile (418 km) drive. After arriving in St. George, we went to the visitors’ center at the temple and toured the winter home of President Brigham Young (1801–77). We also visited the tabernacle, where I was invited to speak to my family for a minute from the same pulpit where President Snow had addressed “the good people of St. George.” We walked around the city, watching and meeting people. They seemed like normal, faithful Latter-day Saints.
I was happy we went. But when we returned to Chile, I realized something: I had seen “the good people of St. George” before.
Because of my work and my Church callings, I have traveled throughout Chile. In Calama, I have seen young adults who strive to keep the commandments. In La Serena, I have seen dedicated parents who arrive early with their children for Church meetings. In Antofagasta, I have seen Latter-day Saints who fight for what is right every day. In Vallenar, Copiapó, Caldera, Tocopilla, and other cities, I have seen members who get on their knees to pray and then move forward even when things aren’t easy.
When I see faithful Latter-day Saints who obey and endure—no matter where they live or what challenges they confront—I say to myself, “These are the good people of St. George.”

Now, a year after her son’s death, Jesusita was still living in San Marcos. On the first Sunday in July 1916, the Saints held a testimony meeting, and each member of the branch bore witness of the gospel and the hope it gave them. Then, on July 17, the anniversary of the killings, they met together again to remember the martyrs. They sang a hymn about the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, and Casimiro Gutierrez read a chapter from the New Testament. Another branch member compared Rafael and Vicente to the martyr Stephen, who died for his testimony of Christ.6
Jesusita remained a pillar of faith for her family. “Our sorrows have been grievous,” she wrote in a letter, “but our faith is strong, and we will never forsake this religion.”7

Brad is ten years old and attends Primary every Sunday. He loves to sing the Primary songs, and he thinks about their messages.
One day, the Primary president told his class that they were planning a special program for the Primary children to give in sacrament meeting. She wanted the boys in Brad’s class to sing a song on the program. The other boys in the class said that they didn’t want to sing. Because his mom was a counselor in the Primary presidency, Brad knew the planning and preparing that were going into this program. He also knew that the Primary president was a special helper of Jesus Christ and that if He had asked Brad to sing, he certainly would say yes. So he raised his hand and said, “I’ll sing the song alone then!”
The Primary president was very pleased.
When he got home, his mom said, “Brad, you’ve never sung alone before—and in front of so many people! Won’t you be scared?”
Brad said that he would be very scared but that he knew that it was important to do what our leaders ask us to do.
The day of the program arrived, and Brad sat on the stand, waiting for his turn on the program. When he knew that he would be next, he became very frightened. Wondering if any sound would come out of his mouth when he started to sing, he said a little prayer. So did his mom, his dad, his sister, his brother, and the Primary president.
When he stood up to sing, the first words were a little shaky. Then, as he thought of the words he was singing, his voice became stronger and stronger:
“Dare to do right! …” (Yes, he thought, I’m doing the right thing.)
“Dare to be true! …” (I will be true to the teachings of Jesus.)
“You have a work that no other can do; …” (The Primary president asked us to sing.)
“Do it so bravely, so kindly, so well, …” (I’m not quite as scared now—and he sang with all his heart.)
“Angels will hasten the story to tell.” (My prayer is being answered, and everyone is listening to the words I’m singing.)
When he sang the second verse, he wasn’t scared anymore at all, and the words came out loud and full of meaning:
“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!
“Other men’s failures can never save you.
“Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith;
“Stand like a hero and battle till death.
“Dare, dare, dare to do right;
“Dare, dare, dare to be true,
“Dare to be true, dare to be true.”*
Brad finished the song and sat down. He had a good feeling inside. He looked at the Primary president, then at his mom and dad. They all had tears in their eyes. His sister and brother were smiling, and he was sure that Jesus was smiling, too.

I was attending Brigham Young University in 1994 when President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95) counseled members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to become “a temple-attending and a temple-loving people.” He said, “Let us hasten to the temple as frequently as time and means and personal circumstances allow.”1
At the time, I was living in an apartment that was only a 15-minute walk from the Provo Utah Temple. I didn’t have a car, but I knew that I had no excuse for not attending the temple regularly. I decided to make it a priority.
I arranged my class schedule so that I would have Fridays open. Then I committed to make that my temple day. Every Friday that semester, rain or shine, I walked to the temple at 7:30 a.m. to be baptized for the dead. If a big paper or project was due, I went to the temple first and then dedicated the rest of my day to schoolwork.
In the years since then, my time, means, and circumstances, as well as my proximity to a temple, have changed several times. But with each change, I have arranged my schedule so that I can continue to make temple attendance a priority in my life.
As I have done this, the blessings of the temple have come into my life, just as President Hunter promised.

Friends. Why can’t we all be friends? Today I was walking about Winter Quarters with Mariah Jewett and Leticia Harwood. Oh, how I have wanted to be Mariah’s friend! She is pretty and clever, and she plans dances for which her father plays the fiddle. I love to dance. She promised to invite me to the next one.
While walking, we saw a family arrive in an overflowing open wagon. I love to see more Saints joining us. Tucked in among the household goods was a girl who looked to be about our age. “How exciting! Let’s go welcome her,” I said.
“Wait,” Mariah said. “Don’t go near her. She’s probably got vermin. Look at her dress. Did you ever see anything so ugly?”
I was anxious about the vermin, so I stared impolitely. Her dress wasn’t ugly, only very plain. Just then the girl saw us watching, and she smiled shyly. Was she feeling as I had felt when we finally joined the other Saints? Was she heartsick at losing friends, and hoping to find new ones?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go be friendly.”
“Hazel!” Mariah’s voice stopped me. “If you mingle with that riffraff, I shall be forced to exclude you from my list of associates.”
I am ashamed that I hesitated, thinking of having fun with Mariah at the dance. Then I remembered the great and spacious building in the Book of Mormon, and I knew where I wanted to be.
“So be it, Mariah,” I said, and I left her. Even in the midst of the Saints, life has trials.

Marion Romney indeed knew what it meant to sacrifice—and to work hard. In Mexico he helped his father produce all the family’s food. In California he stayed out of school for a year to learn carpentry and earn money for the family. When they moved to a farm in Idaho, Marion began every school year late and finished early so he could help with the harvesting and planting. When the family moved to Salt Lake City so his father could finish his degree at the University of Utah, Marion again stayed out of school a year and worked to help support the family. He worked full time throughout his college and law school years. And he always paid a full tithing, even during the winter of 1917, when the combined incomes of the families of Marion’s father and his brother Gaskell totalled less than $80.00 a month. It was young Marion’s job—a chilly task because he had no warm clothes—to take the $8 tithing to the bishop.

We have time to develop a variety of talents and interests. During my medical training, I didn’t have a very generous income. One year, I decided to make all of my Christmas presents myself. Searching for ideas, I bought a paperback book on batik (the art of dyeing designs on fabric). To my delight and surprise, I discovered an undeveloped artistic talent. The art gallery owner who framed the batiks I had made for presents liked them so much he invited me to produce a one-man show! With brisk sales from the show and subsequent commissions, I not only supported myself during my residency but saved enough for a partial down payment on a house.

At age 17, after being hit in the eye with a baseball, he promised the Lord that if he didn’t lose his eyesight, he would read the Book of Mormon. He regained the use of his eye and read 10 pages every day for nearly three months.
“It was the most powerful spiritual experience I’ve ever had, when the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon was true,” Elder Echo Hawk said. “That experience has empowered me throughout my life to help me improve.”

On a trip to a nearby city in Estonia, I saw a man begging for money. Amazingly, I recognized him from when I served as a missionary in that city 10 years earlier. He was carrying a big bag of plastic bottles, just as before, to collect for recycling money. I remembered he always asked for spare change, and if you gave him some he would ask if you had any more.
I was shocked to see him. And after 10 years he was still the same––a little more gray, but it looked like he had been living the same life begging for money day after day. I thought about the wonderful 10 years I had lived in the meantime, which included marrying in the temple, gaining an education, finding a good job, and enjoying good health.
I figured this might be the last time I saw him, and I felt like I should give him something. The problem was I only had a bill that was worth more than I was willing to give. I cringed at the choice I had––give him nothing or give him more than I wanted. I decided it wouldn’t really make a big difference for me and it would make his day, so I gave him the money.
Less than two days later I found myself in a similar situation, but this time I was the one begging for mercy. I had mixed up the date for an important scholarship application. I thought I had turned it in two weeks early, but I was horrified when I double-checked the date and saw that I had sent it in one day late.
The sum of the scholarship was exactly 100 times the amount I had given to the beggar, and the irony was not lost on me. I found myself begging for mercy, both in prayer to my Heavenly Father and via email to the university officials. They said they would include the application but note it was late.
My prayer was answered and I was blessed to receive the scholarship, which financially helped my wife and me a lot. But more importantly this experience taught me a valuable lesson: are we not all beggars before God? (see Mosiah 4:19).

There could have been serious contentions in a community not far from here. But a group of neighbors, in unity, solved a problem before it became serious. A lovely young lady told the following story at a stake conference. She said, “I am a convert from upstate New York. My parents wanted their children to have eternal marriages. There were no Latter-day Saint members to marry in our little branch, so our family moved to Utah.
“Eventually I found myself a husband. He was the president of the local motorcycle club—black leather jackets and motorcycle boots. We rode together—perhaps not what my mother had hoped—but by that time I had wandered from the Church.”
She reported: “We moved into a house. Often our friends would gather there. I’m afraid our neighbors were quite uncomfortable with us. At least one neighbor would take her children into the house when we were roaming about.
“But do you know what our neighbors did? They mowed our lawn and fixed things up because we didn’t have a mower. They would bring flowers when there was illness, and quite often they would bring food to our home. Our little daughter was included in the activities of the other children, including a party on her birthday.”
As she and her husband attempted to thank their neighbors, they replied, “Well, we all like to help each other.” They were made to feel welcome living next to unified and loving neighbors.
She continued, “About ten months later, we traded our black leather jackets and motorcycle boots for the white clothing and slippers of the temple. As we knelt across the altar from each other and looked around that room, there were our neighbors, those who had been mowing our lawn and making things better for us.”
Now they were truly one. She reported to me there is still a wonderful feeling of unity in their neighborhood and ward. It wasn’t temporary.

Right after I was married, I was called as home teacher to four families. The father of one was active but not spiritually converted. The young husband in another wasn’t a member of the Church and wouldn’t attend with his new bride, who was a member. The third couple was inactive—even though the husband was formerly in a stake presidency and the wife had been a stake Primary president. The fourth family, the Smiths, was happily very active in the Church: the father was on the stake high council, and the mother was the ward Relief Society president.
As my home teaching companion and I considered our assignment, our immediate reaction was to concentrate on the three families that needed obvious encouragement and fellowshipping. The Smiths, we reasoned, would get along fine with just a short social visit from us once a month.
But after our initial visit with each family, and after praying about how to be effective home teachers, we began to realize that every family needs—and deserves—a great home teacher, and that the Smiths needed just as much attention, prayerful consideration, and love as any of the other families.
During the first year, we tried to develop a good rapport with the Smiths. Devoting part of every month’s visit directly to the three children, we became fully aware of their progress in Primary, Scouting, Aaronic Priesthood, and school. When the boy received his (highest award a boy can earn in scouting in the U.S.), I was asked to be the speaker at the meeting where he received his award.
Sometimes we went out for ice cream with them. At ward parties, we socialized with every member of the family.
The friendship worked both ways. For example, when our first baby was born no one was more excited than the Smiths. In fact, Sister Smith gave a party for my wife.
One day Brother Smith called to tell me that he was going to be operated on shortly: the doctor had just found a tumor. I helped administer to him.
The surgery was successful—the cancer was removed. We felt that our role was to encourage the family during their father’s recuperation.
About a year later, another tumor appeared. Again the Smiths needed spiritual strength and support, and again the cancer was removed.
However, several months later they found another tumor. We appreciated many times the comforting power of the Spirit as blessings were pronounced in Brother Smith’s behalf. As home teachers, we discussed with the family the importance of combining faith with submissiveness to the Lord’s will.
When this last tumor appeared, it was so extensive that the doctors couldn’t operate. We were all disheartened—yet we still hoped that Brother Smith would live.
I frequently stopped to spend some time with him on my way home from work. Many times he was in so much pain—his pain relievers were ineffective by then—that he would ask me for a blessing. Those experiences became a highlight of my life. Each day I tried to live so that I could receive inspiration that would encourage my ailing friend.
One Saturday morning, as my wife and I were leaving home to do some shopping, I said to her, “I have a feeling that we should go see how Brother Smith endured the night.” We had seen him the night before, and everything seemed fine.
“All right,” she said. “If you feel we should go over, let’s do it.”
We found him in bed—doing about the same as the night before; there had been no major decline in his strength during the past week. I couldn’t help wondering why I had felt impressed to visit them that morning. So I decided that maybe we should share some faith-promoting experiences with them. The children sat around the bed and listened, and the Spirit of the Lord was there in rich abundance. Suddenly, as we talked, Brother Smith died in the arms of his wife.
My wife took the children into another bedroom and spent the next little while talking to them and answering their questions. She indicated to them that their father would be a source of strength to them all their lives and that someday, because of the Savior’s atonement and resurrection, they could have a beautiful reunion with him.
I helped by calling the doctor, the bishop, and the mortician. Later during the day we ran errands for Sister Smith.
The funeral was the following Monday. When the bishop was making the arrangements, Sister Smith indicated that her husband had planned the funeral in great detail, and that I, his home teacher, was to give the spiritual message.
I was overwhelmed. Brother Smith was close to many stake and general leaders in the Church, but instead, he had asked for me to speak at his funeral. And the printed program was to indicate that I was his home teacher.
Afterward, we did what we could to help the family adjust. We arranged for an accountant in our ward to help set up a budget for them and to get the family finances back in order. We asked another ward member, a carpenter/handyman, to help us inspect the house to determine what needed to be done to maintain the value of the home. The priesthood quorums in the ward then came in and did the needed work to get the home back to its normal condition.
We also helped Sister Smith evaluate various job opportunities. And we tried to be even closer to the children.
Did we neglect our other home teaching families during all this time? No, we saw some small, quiet successes there, too.
The family whose father wasn’t spiritually converted remained active in the Church. The family’s bond of love and closeness enabled them to understand and accept each other’s points of view without alienating one another.
We arranged for the young nonmember husband of the second family to speak at youth firesides and Mutual classes on his life as a policeman, and he was excited about helping young people feel good about policemen. Once he took his motorcycle to Mutual and explained to the boys how it functioned. When this couple moved from the ward a year later, he left with a better feeling towards his wife’s church than he had at the time of their marriage.
The third couple, we learned, had become inactive because they had not felt a part of the ward. We convinced them that we were their friends and were interested in them. Then we helped the wife see that the Church needed her special talents of teaching children. She began attending Sunday School and later accepted a calling as a Sunday School teacher. When my wife was asked to bake cookies for the ward Christmas party, we asked this couple if they would make the cookies, and then we invited them to come to the party as our guests. When they moved to a new ward later, they didn’t become inactive again but remained active.
We didn’t do anything spectacular—nothing more than anyone else could have done. But as I recall these early home teaching experiences, I feel again the great testimony I gained of the importance of home teaching, of the great love a home teacher can feel towards other people, and of the resulting joy that can come from serving others. And I’m especially glad I learned early that every person—even if he’s active—deserves a good home teacher.