Gospel Story Finder

In addition to learning about family history and temple work, the young women also learned how to embroider. They each embroidered their family’s last name onto a tree, and each leaf on the family tree has the name of a family member on it. At first, Tahna T., 13, resisted this part of the project because it wasn’t a skill she felt she was good at, but she learned to enjoy it so much that she continues to develop her talent with needlework.

During her first year at school, when she lived with four roommates, Fleur had a hard time finding time alone to pray and study scriptures. “There wasn’t much privacy to pray, unless I got in the dorm early. The other option was to pray in the bathroom. It wasn’t the greatest place, but it was private.”

Fleur makes time for gospel study because, she says, “reading the scriptures daily for seminary helps me to live Church principles away from home.” Fortunately, this year Fleur has her own room, making it easier for her to pray and study.

Things were going great. I finally felt I was with the program: I attended Sunday meetings regularly, read my scriptures every day, had prayer morning and night, regularly fasted, paid a full tithe. I had even shared the Book of Mormon with one of my neighbors and was well on my way to completing the Young Womanhood Recognition requirements.
Just one problem.
It nagged at me, constantly in the back of my mind.
I wasn’t baptized yet.
Sweet 16, here I come, and the only thing I wanted for my birthday was to be baptized. I had asked my dad several times, and we had compromised. Yes, I could go to church more often now, but I still wouldn’t step into a font until I turned 18. That was that.
This was some birthday. I flopped on the couch, realizing two years had passed since I first read the Book of Mormon and wanted to be baptized. I sighed. Two years down, two to go.
The doorbell rang. A salesman, I thought.
Ready for disappointment, I turned the corner and saw two silhouettes in the frosted glass. The missionaries!
“Hi, Liz, how are you?”
“Great! How are you? Come in!” They had no idea how glad I was to see them. They stopped by sometimes to see how I was doing and were always ecstatic when I made it to sacrament meetings.
“So what’s happening?” asked Elder Rizutto.
“Oh, not much,” I said. “Well … it’s my birthday.”
“Really? How old are you? Eighteen?”
“I wish.”
My testimony was strong, I felt the Spirit often, and I knew Heavenly Father was watching over me. But I was tired of being patient. I wanted to be a Latter-day Saint, a real member with a certificate. When people asked me about my religion, I wanted to shout from the top of the hills, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Can’t you tell? Can’t you see the miraculous changes in my life?”
“We should go, it’s getting late,” said the elders after a short conversation. “We just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Wait. I just have one question. What do you call people like me? When people ask me what religion I am, I’m not sure what to say.”
“You haven’t been baptized, so you’re a nonmember,” one elder said.
“How do I tell a nonmember that I’m a nonmember?” I asked. “I believe in the Church. I have a testimony.”
A pause.
“Liz, you are a daughter of God,” said Elder Rizutto. “And to be a Saint is to be a follower of Christ. If you believe Jesus Christ is your Savior, Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and the Book of Mormon is true, then you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Oh,” I said quietly. He was right. Why had I been so worried about a title? Heavenly Father knew the intent of my heart. He knew I was doing my best to be a good member of the Church—even as a nonmember. The gospel was not stamped on a certificate but in my heart. I still needed to be baptized for a remission of my sins and to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, but I knew who I was.
Two more years passed. I was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost by the laying on of hands by those in authority. Thinking back on the years of waiting, I wondered again why I had to wait so long to become an official member of the Church. Then I remembered what the missionaries told me, and I realized it didn’t matter how long I had to wait or why. The baptism sealed in my heart the knowledge of what had been true all along: I am a daughter of God, a Latter-day Saint.

I went on a two-day school field trip with other fifth and sixth graders to study paleontology. I shared a motel room with three of my friends. One of my friends found a Bible in the nightstand drawer. He flipped through some of the pages and then asked me if I would help him read it. I was surprised that he didn’t know any of the Bible stories I thought everyone knew. I taught him about the Creation, Adam and Eve, and the Resurrection. I also told him about Joseph Smith. I told him some of the stories I learned in Primary.
Afterward, I felt like we should have a prayer. I let my friend say the prayer. I led him through it by saying one phrase at a time and having him repeat it. I had a warm feeling, and my friend said he felt good inside.
I never expected that to happen on a school field trip. I was glad that when I had an opportunity to be a missionary, I was prepared and I wasn’t afraid to share my beliefs.

Early in their service in Bastia, missionaries had volunteered at the main Catholic hospital, but the monsignor in charge of the hospital declined their service when he learned of their religion. He was reluctant to have different Christian faiths involved in the hospital.
A couple months later, in May 1992, a massive section of a soccer stadium collapsed during a championship match, killing 19 and sending thousands of seriously injured spectators to the hospital.
The casualties overwhelmed the hospital. Injured soccer fans filled rooms and lined the hallways. Some were flown to mainland France for care. The monsignor, desperate for capable volunteers, remembered a card the missionaries had left and called them for help.
For 36 hours, the missionaries ran from task to task, helping with various types of supervised emergency care, such as hanging IV lines, applying tourniquets, cleaning rooms, and moving the injured. They gave priesthood blessings to branch members injured in the collapse.
When the monsignor observed the unflagging efforts of the missionaries, he called them together and led them throughout the hospital, telling the patients that the missionaries were men of God and to let them administer blessings to the wounded.
Brother Thatcher recalls: “We gained the respect and admiration of a high-ranking city official and an important ecclesiastical authority by our service.” It softened hearts and helped eliminate resistance in the community, he said. “This was critical to the success of our proselyting efforts.”

Clay said quietly, “I ran the marathon today. Twenty-six-point-two miles. It was a killer.”
“You should have told us!” Mom said. “We would have come to cheer you on.”
He looked at me. “I thought about what you said about praying. The whole time I was praying that God could help me understand why Ryan died and help me know that he wasn’t gone for good. Near the end of the race, I was the only one in front. I don’t even remember passing the other runners. It was like Ryan was running next to me, saying, ‘Go for it. You’re gonna win. Listen to your feet; keep up the rhythm; keep up the pace.’ And I won. I think I understand now. Ryan was like a sprinter. His race was quick, over in a few seconds. The rest of us are going for distance, though we don’t know when our own race will end.” His eyes filled, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.
His voice dropped. “Ryan’s alive. His spirit is still alive.”
Elder Martin turned to Clay. “You’re right. You will see him again and be with him.” His eyes shone.
Elder Weiss said, “Hey, Clay, you’ve inspired us to start running every morning. What if we come by here on our way and pick you up? We can do some running together, and you can give us some pointers.”
Clay nodded. His breathing had slowed. He looked more healthy and alive than he’d looked for a long time. “Yeah, sure. That’d be okay.”
I watched the elders pedal away, smiling and talking like brothers, their long coats flapping behind them, ears already red with cold. Even though they wore dark suits, they seemed as bright as our flowers against the dull sky. Part of the pattern was becoming clear to me, and I knew those two young men would be connected to our family forever.

It was my privilege just over a month ago to dedicate the Gilbert Arizona Temple, a magnificent structure. The evening before the dedication, a cultural event was held at the nearby Discovery Park. Twelve thousand young people performed a 90-minute program. The dancing, the singing, and the musical performances were outstanding.
This area had been experiencing an especially dry season, and I believe many prayers had been sent heavenward over the preceding several weeks for much-needed rain. Unfortunately, it came just before the performance and stayed for the entire production! Despite the fact that the youth were soaked through with the rain and chilled from the cool temperature, we all felt the Spirit of the Lord. The theme of the program, “Live True to the Faith”—think about that: “Live True to the Faith”—was portrayed magnificently by smiling and enthusiastic young men and young women. Despite the cold and the rain, this was a faith-filled and inspiring experience these young people will ever treasure and will be relating to their children and grandchildren in the years to come.

Tamra Goldsberry is making an important statement to the local media in her hometown of Lilburn, Georgia. But this 16-year-old from the Lilburn Georgia Stake is also making an important statement by setting the example of serving others.
Tamra, along with several other young people and the adult leaders in her stake, recently helped to can 600 cans of tomato soup for a nearby children’s shelter. The youth service project not only attracted the attention of the evening news, but also an interfaith broadcast in the Atlanta area which will include information about the canning project and information about a typical LDS Sunday service.

A neighbor received an original and useful gift from her sister last Christmas. It was a file box filled with the makings for a year’s worth of family home evenings. Each manila folder contained a lesson and mounted visual aids clipped from the current manual. Also included were paper napkins and a variety of stickers for the children to glue on them for refreshment time. The mother reports that the file, with lessons ready-to-go, has been one of the best gifts her family has ever received, and it’s been used by parents and children alike.

In the San Diego California North Stake, the stake Young Women president, Sheryl Arrington, had similar ideas for helping her young women make the modest choice.
When they heard about plans for a modest fashion show, many young women rose to the occasion. “Modesty is important to me because it is important to the Lord,” said Hyesuhn Lee, a Laurel. “I know that being modest will help me reach my goal of going to the temple.”
Several other Laurels like Hyesuhn were invited to participate in the show, and the enthusiasm spread to the Mia Maids and Beehives, who offered to help as well. The show was expanded to include casual clothes, modeled by the Beehives, and Sunday best, showcased by the Mia Maids. With so much participation, Laurel Paige Mange discovered that she was in good company. “The show reminded me that I am not the only one facing the challenge of staying modest.”
The show took as its theme “Be Thou an Example,” and the young women truly became examples by inviting the 11-year-old girls in the stake to come see modesty in action. Christie Richmond, a Laurel, remembered the show’s simple lesson: “We can wear beautiful gowns and clothes and look pretty and be modest at the same time. Modesty will help you feel good about yourself because you know you are doing the right thing.”
Laurel Kierston Knobloch agrees. “I feel confident and comfortable when I know I don’t have to tug and pull at my clothes.”
The girls’ confidence was increased by their participation in the show. Not only did they get to wear beautiful, modest clothes, they also learned poise and posture so they could walk confidently down the runway built for the event. Best of all, however, was the temple cutout that adorned the stage, reminding the young women about their goals to stay obedient, pure, and worthy in dress and action so they could move towards the temple. “Modesty makes me feel closer to our Heavenly Father,” reflects Laurel Bee Xiong.
Sister Arrington agrees that modesty is a way for a young woman to grow spiritually. For her girls in California, as well as for the young women in Utah and anywhere else, when it comes to modesty, “young women are always beautiful when they follow the Lord’s principles,” she says.

My wife and I attended a sacrament meeting near Recife, Brazil. A young boy, possibly 9 or 10 years of age, wearing his new blue suit on a very hot day, went to the pulpit and in a very relaxed way looked at the congregation. He said, “Our family has been studying about moral agency.” He then read: “Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh. … And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil.” The boy then said, “Some of my older friends are choosing to smoke and use drugs, but we all will have to accept the consequences of our actions.” He finished with his testimony, saying, “I can see that this is true.” This testimony from one so young was powerful and touched our hearts deeply.

Montreal—On the Montreal Star daily newspaper works a young Latter-day Saint, Margaret J. Ellis. Here is her report about what it was like to be in the middle of the recent Canadian crisis:
“As I stood conducting the music for sacrament service, I couldn’t help but notice the somber faces before me. Only a few hours before had come the news that Quebec Labor and Immigration Minister Pierre Laporte had been killed by terrorists. All of Canada was shocked.
After the meeting, everyone stood around and talked. Even now we keep talking about it. Said one youth: ‘I’m surprised this happened in Quebec. I didn’t think the FLQ (Front de Liberation du Quebec) was serious about things.’ It typified the thoughts of many others.
“‘The Quebec situation reminds me of the tower of Babel—it seems that the French and English can no longer communicate in love and brotherhood. So many think they must use violence,’ said one.
“Said another young adult: ‘I didn’t relate to it because it seemed remote. But then I realized that sick people were behind it, and I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I didn’t have the gospel. We Latter-day Saints stick together because of the gospel, but many others here seemed really tossed to and fro.’ Said another: ‘My two brothers were out until 2:00 A.M. the night of Mr. Laporte’s murder. I’ve never been so concerned for their safety or loved them so much.’
“Many of the Saints turned to speaking about the last days and about the sorrow and trouble and fear that will precede Christ’s second coming. We talked about how it seems to be Satan’s plan to frighten mankind. We talked of the importance of listening to the prophet’s voice and communicating with our Heavenly Father through fasting and prayer so we will know what is best for each of us when troubled times come. As we talked of prophecies, we agreed that, in general, conditions on earth apparently will worsen, but that each of us can be prepared.
“Later I joined the thousands of people who thronged to the stone courthouse in Old Montreal to pay their last respects to Pierre Laporte. I never put enough warm clothes on, I thought for an instant while waiting in the endless line. One hour, two, three. My feet were numb. I could hardly walk. There was still no visible sign of anyone going in.
“I now had time to ponder the events, which had not hit me with complete impact until I stepped out onto a dreary, barren street, lined with dingy warehouses, to hear the tolling bell. There were people from all walks of life—businessmen in suits and mustaches, hippies in long hair and jeans, fashion-conscious models, old ladies moving slower than the rest.
“‘I would have brought a friend along, but everyone I asked was afraid to come,’ one woman said.
“Soldiers paced the pavement, their heels clicking into the awesome silence. French and English mingled together. ‘Pardon, Madame. Avez-vous l’heure?’ ‘Yes, it’s almost 10:30.’
“There’s something humbling about a vast crowd, something that reaffirms the fact that you are one of many and must take your turn.
“As we shuffled on, I noticed that as the multitude thinned and dispersed, a chill went up my back. A cold, biting breeze hit me. Standing alone it seemed a cold world—people were warmed only by getting together. I thought, What can I do to help? How can I best serve a nation?
“To me, service is the act of supporting that in which you believe. I used to feel that because I was not a born leader with a responsible position, I could not serve mankind. But I realized that night on the street in Montreal that most of us must follow, but we can be responsible for choosing what we will support. Montreal still stands. But all Canadians have learned something about supporting one another—and choosing carefully the causes they support.”

Fifteen-year-old Andy Tuitupou’s feet left the court long enough to grab the rebound during basketball practice. Gliding through the air, Andy was confident—he was good-looking, popular, active in his teachers quorum in our Utah ward, and a member of the school basketball team. But when his feet touched the ground again, his life changed. His strong body crashed to the floor—never to walk again.
Surgeons pinned and cast Andy’s broken leg. Pain became his constant companion. Long days, determination, and patience seemed to bring only more suffering. Although Andy gave it his all, physical therapists weren’t able to help him learn to walk again.
In desperation Paul and Carolyn Tuitupou, Andy’s parents, took him to a hospital where skilled surgeons operated and found the source of Andy’s intense pain: bone cancer. Andy made the difficult decision to have the doctors amputate his leg. Whatever the price, he wanted to beat the cancer.
Several days after the amputation, Andy asked me—his bishop—if he could receive his patriarchal blessing. I wondered what a blessing would hold for a young man facing possible death. I rushed to my office to get a patriarchal blessing recommend. Then I jumped in my car and headed for Andy’s bedside, where I found him waiting patiently for his interview. I asked Andy where he was getting his obvious strength and peace. “From the things I learned in family home evening,” he answered without hesitation. Andy was worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
As I visited with him throughout the next few months, I saw him as a brother who loved his family, friends, the gospel, and life. Although his spiritual health was strong, his physical well-being seemed only to worsen. Chemotherapy treatments left him violently nauseated for four or five days each week.
All hopes of a cure were dashed when a tumor in Andy’s hip erupted. His lungs began failing as cancerous tumors started their deadly invasion. But Andy wasn’t content to watch life pass him by. With the help of a devoted Scout leader, Andy soon fulfilled the requirements for his Eagle Award.
During one of my routine visits with this young member of my ward, I felt prompted to set up a formal appointment for his annual priesthood interview on the next Sunday.
On Sunday I headed for the hospital and found Andy in agony with his eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly sat by his bedside. After several minutes of listening to Andy’s labored breathing, I heard him whisper, “Bishop, are you going to interview me?”
After a tender prayer, I began the interview.
“Andy, are you morally clean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you honor your priesthood?”
“Yes.”
Our interview was a spiritual feast. After I asked him all my questions, he had one for me: “Bishop, how many priesthood blessings can I have?”
“As many as you want,” I said.
A few days later, I awoke to a ringing telephone.
“Andy is pretty bad. Can you come over?” Carolyn Tuitupou asked.
When I reached my friend, he asked for a blessing and then said, “I want to go home.”
As his humbled bishop, I placed my hands on my young friend’s head and knew Andy was nearing the end of his mission on earth. I asked the Lord to please take Andy home if it was His will.
After the blessing, I held Andy’s hand and said to him, “It’s okay to go home, little brother; it’s okay to go home.”
Before he went home, though, he had a few things to finish. Andy’s pain subsided, and breathing became easier, enabling him to talk to each of his brothers and his sister privately. He expressed his love to each of them and challenged his brothers to serve missions.
When I talked to him again, I asked him what he wanted me to tell the youth in the ward.
“Tell them you don’t have to be ‘cool’ for your friends; real friends don’t care if you’re ‘cool,’” he said.
Andy called several special people on the phone to say good-bye. He called an aunt he was close to and wanted to challenge her to become active in the Church again. Afraid of offending her, he didn’t quite have the courage to do it.
I looked at Andy and knew I had one last calling for him.
“Andy, will you serve as a ward missionary?”
Andy smiled. “Yes.”
I once again placed my hands on his head. After I set him apart, I gave him his first assignment: “Andy, I want you to get on the phone and bear your testimony to your aunt.”
I left the room, and he went to work—an honorable missionary.
Throughout the day, friends and neighbors dropped by to see Andy. Because it is traditional in the Tongan culture to sing in front of the home of someone who is dying, a member of the ward organized a group to come later that evening and honor Andy by singing on the Tuitupous’ front lawn.
Midafternoon, Andy’s breathing became very labored. His father and I laid our hands on his head. Brother Tuitupou pleaded with Heavenly Father to allow his son to return home. Andy died in his mother’s arms.
Their front yard was soon full of ward members singing Andy’s favorite hymn, “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). Music surrounded the home, and the family wept as love filled their hearts.
Although the Tuitupou family said an early good-bye to their son and brother, they knew they had been given much: the chance to love and learn from Andy.

“There is enough food for only one more day,” the captain said. “Would you like to eat it all or divide it into smaller portions to last three days?”
The company agreed to divide the food. Louisa’s stomach growled as she and her family accepted their tiny portions. As a member of the Martin Handcart Company, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had enough to eat.
That night, the company gathered around the fire to sing. “And should we die before our journey’s through, happy day! All is well!”*
Louisa’s sister Elizabeth wiped away a tear.
“Are you worried about Mother?” Louisa whispered.
Elizabeth tried to smile. “A little. But remember Mother’s blessing?”
Louisa nodded. “Yes. It comforts me too.”
Mother had been sick before leaving England, and Father had helped carry her onto the ship. Mother had been given a blessing that promised she would live to see her children reach Zion. Though she improved during the sea voyage, pulling a handcart through the early winter snow and surviving on such little food had weakened her again. Every day she grew worse.
Staring into the dying fire, Louisa tried not to think about the snowy graves that had been dug for so many of her friends along the trail. Instead she thought about Mother’s blessing and the warm feeling of assurance she had felt. Mother, Father, and all six of her siblings—even the two-year-old twins—would make it to Zion safely. Louisa was sure of it!
The next morning, as they plodded through the snow, Louisa’s mother began to stumble.
“Go on without me,” she called to Louisa’s father. “I can’t go any further!”
“You have to keep trying,” Elizabeth pleaded.
It was no use—Mother’s strength was gone. She kissed each family member good-bye. Then she hobbled over to a boulder, sat down, and cried.
“The company can’t wait for us,” Louisa’s father said, his eyes filled with sadness.
Louisa tried to keep her voice steady. “Elizabeth, will you help Father take care of the others?”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “Louisa—”
“We can’t all stay here, and we can’t leave Mother alone to die,” Louisa insisted. “I’ll stay here. Don’t worry.” She tried to sound brave. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
As the weary company struggled past, tugging their sagging handcarts, Louisa sat next to Mother and watched them disappear over the ridge. Soon Louisa and her mother were alone, listening to the howling wind. Louisa’s skin prickled at the thought of howling wolves.
“I’ll be right back, Mother,” Louisa said. She walked down the trail a short distance and knelt in the snow. “Please, Heavenly Father, wilt Thou protect us from the devouring wolves? Wilt Thou grant Mother the strength to continue so we can reach camp tonight?”
Louisa remained on her knees, waiting. She thought of camp, its welcoming bonfire and loving family members huddled around it. She thought of Zion, still hundreds of miles away.
Even though the chilling wind blew, she felt a warm spot growing in her heart. Yes. Heavenly Father would answer her prayer.
Louisa hopped onto her sore feet and started back up the trail, but something lay in her path. She blinked in surprise. She squinted and crouched down for a better look.
There, in the middle of the road, was a perfectly made pie.
“Oh my goodness,” Louisa cried. “Manna from heaven!” Laughing, she snatched it up. It looked and smelled delicious, like the pies Mother used to make back home in England.
“Mother, I’ve found something!” Louisa called.
“What is it?”
Louisa’s eyes glittered above her rosy cheeks as she placed the pie in Mother’s hands.
She gasped. “Louisa, where did you get this?”
“I prayed for you, and Heavenly Father sent me a pie. I found it on the road.”
Tearfully, Louisa’s mother thanked Heavenly Father for the miraculous gift. She ate the pie and rested awhile.
“I’m feeling much better,” Mother finally said, pulling herself onto her feet. “The Lord doesn’t want us to give up, and I won’t—not ever again.”
Louisa grinned. “Let’s catch up with the others. We can still make it to camp tonight.”
After darkness fell, they met Louisa’s father coming back to look for them. He rejoiced that Mother had regained her strength.
For the rest of the journey, whenever Louisa’s mother felt like quitting, she remembered the gift of the pie and offered a prayer of thanks instead.
Louisa and her family prayed with gratitude all the way to the Salt Lake Valley, where they arrived together safely on November 30, 1856. Mother’s blessing was fulfilled, just as Louisa had always known it would be.

As a young man having just finished my first year of college and needing to earn money for a desired mission, I spent the summer working at the new Jackson Lake Lodge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Many college-age youths came to work in that pristine, beautiful area.
One such person was Jill, a young woman from San Francisco, California. Feeling that a young woman from a big city might be a little bit naive about her new environment, I and a few friends felt it our obligation to teach her about the ways of the real West. We decided to take her on a “snipe hunt.” For those of you who may not be familiar with a snipe hunt, it is a practical joke, as there is no such thing as a snipe, at least not in the western United States. The tools necessary for a snipe hunt are a stick and a cloth bag. The “hunter” is told to go through the brush, beating the bushes with a stick while calling the snipe in a high-pitched, ridiculous voice. The nonexistent snipes are thus to be driven into the cloth bag.
We gave Jill her cloth bag and a stick and an area to hunt across the hill. The plan was to return to our starting point in about 15 minutes, at which time we would supposedly count our snipes.
When she did not return at the appointed time, we gloated and took delight in the seriousness with which she took her hunt. After about 30 minutes, we felt it was time to rescue her, explain the joke, have a good laugh, and all go to dinner. However, it became apparent that she had taken her snipe hunt more seriously than we had expected—she was not to be found in her assigned area. After searching rather extensively and still finding no evidence of her, we began moving into the woods, calling for her at the top of our voices, but to no avail.
Hoping she might have gone back to her dormitory, we returned and asked some young women to search for her there, but this also was to no avail. It was now turning dark, and our concern heightened. We enlisted all the young men we could from the boys’ dormitory, and with flashlights continued the search deep into the woods. Well into the darkness of night—frightened, concerned, and hoarse from calling—we decided it was now time to report our ridiculous deed to the park rangers. While we were standing in front of the dorms, trying to determine which brave soul would have the privilege of reporting her disappearance, Jill suddenly appeared—not from her dormitory, but rather from that of a friend, with whom she had enjoyed dinner (which we incidentally missed) and a comfortable evening with her friends. Her first words to us as she approached said it all: “How do you fellows like hunting snipe hunters?” Well, so much for big city naïveté, and so much for the ways of the real West. The joke was on us, and I have never had a desire for any more snipe hunting.

There are those of us who have laid away our little ones in the grave, and we had that responsibility. A little daughter was born to us over in Holland while I was president of the mission there, and we kept her until she was three and a half years old. My wife has said time and time again that she knew the angels brought that spirit to her because she felt their presence, and yet we laid her away in the grave. If we had to feel that that was the end, we would have given anything in this world to have her back again. And then we come to this great knowledge that we have in the restoration of the gospel, that she will be ours in the eternal world and we will have the joy of seeing her grow up without sin, unto salvation. Sometimes I have thought that probably some of these choice spirits did not need the experience here in mortality like other children, and that is why the Lord has seen fit to call them home.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

When 10-year-old John joined the swimming team, he told his coach he could compete in the meets held on Saturday but not those held on Sunday. At the last meet of the season, John’s relay race was scheduled for Sunday. He remembered a family home evening lesson about making decisions in advance so it would be easier to do the right thing when the time came. John said: “I had made the decision not to swim on Sunday before I joined my team. That made it easier for me to tell the coach that I couldn’t swim the relay. I thought the coach would be mad at me. But at the end-of-the-year banquet, … he told the team how proud he was of me for having standards and then sticking to them.” John shows he knows by keeping the Sabbath day holy and setting an example of someone who follows the teachings of Jesus. Every time you keep the Sabbath day holy, you show you know.

I once attended a conference in the Hartford Connecticut Stake. An assignment had been made three months earlier to all members of the stake presidency to speak on this subject of family history work. One had been a counselor in the stake presidency but became stake patriarch at that conference. He told this interesting incident.
He had not been able to get started in family history work, although he was “converted” to it. He just didn’t know where to start. When he received the assignment to prepare a life history from his own records, he was unable to find anything about his childhood and youth except his birth certificate. He was one of 11 children born to Italian immigrants. He is the only member of his family in the Church.
In fulfilling the assignment he tried to put together everything he could find on his life. At least he was starting, but there just didn’t seem to be anywhere to go. He could get his own life story put together from his own memory and from what few records he had.
Then a very interesting thing happened. His aged mother, who was in a rest home, had a great yearning to return once more to her homeland in Italy. Finally, because she was obsessed with this desire, the doctors felt nothing would be gained by denying her this request, and the family decided to grant their mother her dying wish. And for some reason they all decided that this brother (the only member of the family in the Church) should be the one to accompany his mother to Italy.
All at once, then, he found himself returning to the ancestral home. A door was opening! While in Italy he visited the parish church where his mother was baptized and also the parish church where his father was baptized. He met many relatives. He learned that the records in the parish go back for 500 years. He visited the town hall to look into the records and found people very cooperative there. The town clerk told him that the previous summer a seminarian and a nun had been there together looking for records of this brother’s family name, and they had said they were collecting the family history of the family. He was given the name of the city where they lived, and he now could follow that lead. He learned also that there is a city in Italy bearing the family name.
But this is not all. When he came to Salt Lake City to general conference he returned by way of Colorado, where many of his family live. There, with very little persuasion, a family organization was effected and a family reunion was planned, which soon afterwards was held.
And then, as always happens, some of his relatives—his aunts and uncles, his brothers and sisters—began to provide the pictures and information about his life that he never knew existed. And, as always happens, he learned that this is a work of inspiration.

I don’t have any photographs of myself as a child. One afternoon during my senior year in high school, my mother, who was a school teacher, and I were driving home together after my basketball practice. We lived on a ranch about three miles outside of the small town of Lima, Montana, where the school was located. As we neared our home, we could see smoke billowing up from the house. I was driving and rushed to get home. When we got there, the house was already engulfed in flames. Fortunately my stepfather and little brother were safely out working in the field. But everything that we owned, everything, burned in the fire. That was a very traumatic experience for me. I was sixteen years old, and to be left with nothing was a very, very lonely feeling.
Friends came that night and put my family up in their homes for a few days. I was distraught from worrying about what our family would do. I stayed awake most of the night, worrying and occasionally weeping. I remember that my mother came into my room about four o’clock in the morning and said, “My dear son, everything will be all right. As long as we have family, friends, and the gospel, we have everything.” That was a marvelous lesson for me to learn.