Gospel Story Finder

Before filming at the Mount of Beatitudes, the choir boarded two boats at Tiberias and crossed the Sea of Galilee. About halfway across the sea, which can give rise to sudden storms as it did the night Christ calmed the waters, the boats stopped, a prayer was offered, and the choir and others sang “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.”
“I really felt the Spirit when we stopped out on the Sea of Galilee,” says one choir member. “I’ve really never felt it that strongly before.”

Not long after that, I ran into a different set of missionaries. I was shocked that God would hear and answer the prayers of a boy like me, until I read about Joseph Smith. I had read in the New Testament to pray always, but God appearing to a man? It felt both radical and right. Rather than run away, I set up an appointment to have them teach me.
A month into meeting with the missionaries, they invited me to be baptized. I didn’t want to turn them down, but I was hesitant to leave the tradition of my parents and everyone around me. There were two paths before me, and I knew there was only one way to know which one to take—I had to pray like Joseph Smith. I asked Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, if the things the missionaries had been teaching me were true.
That was my turning point. From then on, I knew for myself that the restored gospel is true. No one could take that knowledge away from me. I knew which path to follow, and nothing could change that.

Ten years later I came back to my father’s home for a time. My father, who was the ward mission leader, invited me to listen as the missionaries taught two young ladies in his home. The missionaries challenged us to ask Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I accepted the challenge and spent fourteen hours reading, meditating, and praying about Joseph Smith. It was a spiritual experience that is sacred to me. I read Joseph Smith’s history in the Pearl of Great Price twice that night. I prayed many times and stayed up all night. At nine o’clock the next morning I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that the gospel was true.
I went to the sister missionaries’ house and asked for baptism. They explained that they needed to teach me seven discussions. I told them, “Give me all seven right now. I need to be baptized.” Two days later, I was. I began at once to work in the Church and to study everything the Church published in Portuguese. I enjoyed it all immensely, and my testimony has been strong ever since. The Church and the gospel have given me everything I have, including my family.

Darren* didn’t fit in. He was loud and obnoxious, a constant bragger, and a liar. He never had a nice thing to say about anyone. He constantly put people down.
I was his seminary teacher, and that 14-year-old boy nearly drove me crazy. He was always interrupting class. He had answers for every question, but they usually had nothing to do with the lesson. He took every opportunity to make up some outlandish story where he was the hero and everybody else was just plain stupid.
I must admit, I had to struggle to like Darren. He had to be the center of attention. In his attempts to be funny and to be heard, he was ruining my class. I tried to talk to Darren about it. I tried to help him to see just how disruptive he was, and how he was driving any friends he might have away, but I had no effect on him.
Everyone avoided Darren, everyone except for Jeff. Jeff was one of the sharpest, most popular boys in the school. It was an unlikely friendship, but sometime during Jeff’s sophomore year of high school, he decided to be Darren’s friend.
I couldn’t understand why Jeff, who had lots of friends, would want to hang around with Darren. But he did. He came to class with Darren and left with him. They walked around school together. Jeff even ate lunch with him.
For Jeff to do this was no small sacrifice. One time Jeff was invited to a party but was told Darren couldn’t come because he would ruin things. Jeff told the others that if Darren couldn’t come, he wouldn’t come either. He would do something with Darren instead. That was the way things went for most of the year.
On more than one occasion, Jeff was left out of things because he insisted on bringing Darren. But in spite of this and Darren’s bizarre bragging and put-downs, which were sometimes directed at Jeff, Jeff remained Darren’s loyal friend.
One time in seminary Jeff gave an opening prayer that took us all by surprise. Jeff asked Heavenly Father to bless Darren and help him to know that we cared about him and that he didn’t need to brag in order to have friends. After the prayer I was watching for some kind of reaction from Darren. Would he be embarrassed? Angry? Nothing really happened. Darren was quiet for a few minutes, then went back to being his usual self.
It wasn’t until about the middle of the second year that I sensed a change in Darren. Jeff and the Lord were performing a miracle in slow motion. Jeff’s consistent and loyal friendship was changing Darren. Darren was becoming a nice guy.
Part of the miracle was that Darren knew what Jeff was doing. He knew that Jeff was a friend by choice, sacrifice, and effort, not by natural selection.
In the beginning of their senior year, the bishop had several of the seniors talk in sacrament meeting. Darren was one of the speakers. His talk was about how the Savior befriended everyone and taught that “We should all love one another, even if it’s hard.” He talked about Jeff and thanked him for his friendship. He told the ward that at one time he had decided to leave the Church and school. He hated himself and everyone else. But then Jeff came along and made a difference—by being his friend.
Six years later Jeff and I were witnesses at Darren’s wedding. Looking at Darren’s friends and family gathered together, I saw that the 14-year-old boy with one friend had become a returned missionary with dozens, thanks to the Jeff difference.

When I finished high school, I knew I had to wait at least two years before serving a mission. I decided to start my college education, calculating that I could be done with medical school in about six years if I invested myself fully. I planned to serve a full-time mission afterward.
After completing medical school at age 24, I started a clinical apprenticeship, which furthered my career opportunities. During this time a dilemma unfolded: should I really serve a mission, or should I keep working? My parents, my older brother (who had recently returned from his mission), my bishop, and a counselor in the local mission presidency all exhorted me to serve.
I believed they were right, but it was difficult to delay my promising medical career. I prayed and fasted for inspiration. I also consulted my patriarchal blessing, which recommended that I serve a full-time mission and promised blessings as a result.
One day, as I was taking public transport home from my apprenticeship, I ran into the stake patriarch. We got off at the same stop and, curiously, started walking in the same direction. He recognized me as a member of the Church.
As we walked together, he asked me what I was planning to do with my life. I explained that I was a doctor and was troubled about deciding between my career and a mission. He told me in a firm voice to serve the Lord by going on a mission, adding that I would be blessed as a result. To me, his response seemed to come from the Lord.
Immediately the following scripture entered my mind: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you” (3 Nephi 13:33).
I was certain the Lord had answered me. Without further hesitation, I decided to delay my professional career and serve a full-time mission. My fellow doctors thought I would forget medical practices after being away for two years. They harassed me, but I held firm to my decision.
Leaving behind my “Dr.” title, I served two years in the Democratic Republic of Congo Kinshasa Mission.
Five years later, I made a list of the major blessings that followed my service. Foremost, I found a wife—a faithful Church member and my crowning joy. We have two children so far. Our family is sealed for eternity. In the temple we have acted as proxies in performing ordinances for our deceased ancestors. I have secure employment, allowing my family to be self-reliant. These are only a few of the blessings we have received from the Lord.
I know that Heavenly Father never lies and that eventually He fulfills all His promises to us as we put our trust in Him and keep His commandments.

For a combined Mutual activity one Wednesday night, our youth leaders had prepared a service project with a fun twist. They divided the youth into four teams of about eight people. They gave everyone a sheet of paper with a list of service ideas we could do for people in our ward boundaries. The game was to get points by doing service. For example, washing a person’s car was worth 20 points, vacuuming a living room was worth 15 points, and so on. Everybody needed to be back to the church at a certain time. If a team was late, they lost all of their points.
Being very competitive by nature, I figured my team could get four times as much accomplished if we worked in pairs. I told the other three pairs to make sure they got back to the church on time so we would not get penalized. I paired myself up with a deacon, and we headed off to his neighborhood.
We were efficient and really racking up the points. With 10 minutes left, we stopped at a widow’s house. She was not a member of the Church but was a neighbor of the young man I was teamed up with. She was in her backyard trying to pull weeds along a canal bank. When we asked her if she needed help, she gladly let us help. Pulling weeds just happened to be on our list and was worth quite a few points!
We tried to hurry because we were racing the clock. If we came back to the church late, we would forfeit all the points our team had earned.
I will never forget what took place that night in a widow’s backyard while engaged in a service activity for Mutual. The deacon and I looked at each other, and one of us said, “If we don’t leave now, we won’t make it back in time.”
He could see in my eyes that I wanted to stay, and I could see in his eyes that he wanted to stay. So we stayed and helped with the weeding. It took us about a half hour to finish the job.
As we walked back to the church, we talked about how good we felt inside. We also talked about how appreciative the woman was for our efforts.
When we entered the church, members of our team were mad at us because we didn’t come back on time. The team that had tallied up the most points was beginning to rub it in about their victory. Our leaders asked us why we were so late, and we told them what had happened. They gathered everybody around and told our story. Then they told us we were the real winners.
But we had already earned our prize in the widow’s backyard. That experience gave me a greater appreciation for serving others and still influences my life today. I am ever grateful for those Mutual leaders who helped two young men gain a testimony of serving others.

On June 5, 1932, Elder Widtsoe came to Naples to baptize me, but a revolution had started in Sicily, and the police at Palermo refused to let me leave the island. The following year, Elder Widtsoe asked me to translate the Joseph Smith pamphlet into Italian and to have 1,000 copies published. I took my translation to a printer, Joseph Gussio, who took the material to a Catholic bishop. The bishop ordered the printer to destroy the material. I sued the printer, but all I received from the court was an order to him to return the original booklet.

When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.

In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.

From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”

On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.

On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

The young people in the Hermosa Beach Ward, Torrance California North Stake, have been singing and dancing their way into other people’s hearts for five years now. What had its roots as a Beehive class service project has blossomed into an entertainment group that performs monthly for convalescent homes, senior citizens’ groups, veterans’ hospitals, and other civic groups and organizations.
Former Beehive adviser Elsie Leach has been honored at the Good Samaritan Awards ceremony in Los Angeles for her efforts in organizing and directing the group, which has as its primary goal taking entertainment to senior citizens and shut-ins at least once a month. Many nonmembers as well as ward youth participate in tap and ballet routines, comedy acts, and other types of musical and dance numbers.
“It’s a fine missionary tool,” said Sister Leach. “Because we work so hard together, we really get to know and respect each other.”
They have shared many memorable experiences, including one special evening at the veterans’ hospital in Long Beach. Sister Barbara Dodge concluded the program with a medley of songs from each of the armed forces. As she played “From the Halls of Montezuma,” the veterans from the marines stood at attention. As she in turn played songs from each of the other branches of the service, those veterans also stood at attention. “It was a beautiful moment, unexpected and therefore all the more memorable,” said Sister Leach.
There have also been some humorous moments, such as when the group performed on a linoleum floor that was made of a material that deadened the sound. “There we were,” remembered Sister Leach, “tapping away, and not a sound coming out!”
Those who have participated through the years have forged deep friendships and have known the joy of developing and sharing their talents. And perhaps most important of all, they have come to know the meaning of President David O. McKay’s counsel, “If you would be happy, render a kind service, make somebody else happy” (Conference Report, Oct. 1936, p. 105).

We also served for three years in the Pacific Islands. It is significant that almost 25 percent of all the Polynesians in the world are members of the Church. Their faith and spirituality are legendary. Sister Cook and I were in Vava‘u in the Tongan islands on one occasion. I had just spoken about following the prophet in the general session of stake conference. At the luncheon following the conference, I sat next to a distinguished elderly patriarch. He indicated how grateful he was to hear what the prophet was teaching. He gave me the following account. Vava‘u, which is a relatively small island, usually has sufficient rain, but periodically there are severe droughts. The island has long inlets or bays, almost like sounds, which curl into the island below steep hills. When drought conditions left the village without water, there was only one way they could obtain fresh water and stay alive. Over the centuries they had found that fresh water traveled down through rock formations inside the mountains and came up in a few spots in the sea.

The Tongan men would set off in their small boats with a wise elder standing at one end of the boat looking for just the right spot. The strong young men in the boat stood ready with containers to dive deep into the seawater. When they reached the appropriate spot, the wise man would raise both arms to heaven. That was the signal. The strong young men would dive off the boat as deep as they could and fill the containers with fresh springwater. This old patriarch likened this lifesaving tradition to the living waters of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the wise man to God’s prophet here on earth. He noted that the water was pure, fresh, and, in their drought condition, lifesaving. But it was not easy to find. It was not visible to the untrained eye. This patriarch wanted to know everything the prophet was teaching.

Jesse opened her eyes and lay quietly for a moment in the unfamiliar room. She closed them again and pictured the pleasant desert town where she used to live. I’ll miss the swimming pool most of all, she thought. This town at the foot of the mountains feels very different, but it must have a good pool somewhere.
And today she would find it. Her mother had promised her they would. Jesse threw back the covers. Placing her hands under her knees, she swung her limp legs off the bed and sat up.
She pulled her wheelchair close to the bed and shifted herself into it and maneuvered into the bathroom.
At breakfast in the large, sunny kitchen, she asked her mother about going swimming.
“You haven’t started on your math lessons,” her mother reminded her.
“I hate math, and you did say that we could go today.”
“We will. Anyway, doing the math at home is better than going to summer school, don’t you think?”
Jesse sighed. “Yes. I just wish I’d worked harder last year and didn’t have to do it now. Well, I’ll try to get something done.” She wheeled out onto the wide, pleasant front porch and set her books on a table.
A girl about Jesse’s age emerged from a white house directly across the street. She hopped lightly down the front steps and gave Jesse a casual wave. Jesse waved back and watched the girl disappear around the corner on her bicycle.
At that moment Jesse’s mother came out onto the porch. “How about inviting that girl to go swimming with us this afternoon?” she asked.
The girl’s name was Diana. She and Jesse found very little to talk about as they rode to the pool.
Once in the water, Jesse became like anyone else. If anyone stared, it was with admiration. In the water her useless legs were no problem as her strong arms took her smoothly to one end of the pool and back. After several laps, Jesse stopped at the deep end and looked around for Diana. She finally spotted her splashing around in the shallow end. “Come on down here!” Jesse called.
Diana struck out, splashing and thrashing. As she reached the center of the pool, the splashing increased, and Jesse could see that Diana was no longer making any real progress. Her wild strokes became more frantic. Jesse swam quickly to her, caught one hand in hers, and pulled her to the edge. Diana sputtered and coughed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t swim very well?”
“Was I supposed to shout across the pool, ‘I’m a terrible swimmer’?” She coughed again.
“Let’s get out a minute,” Jesse suggested. Diana climbed out and sat quietly beside Jesse on the edge of the pool.
“I don’t really like the water much,” Diana said, breaking a long silence.
“Well, I try to keep in condition,” Jesse said.
“Condition for what?”
“I want to be on the swim team at school, and I do wheelchair racing and stuff.
“You’re really an athlete, huh?”
“I have a lot of respect for my body, such as it is,” Jesse said quietly. “What do you like to do for exercise? I’ve seen you ride your bike.”
Diana answered, “I ride my bike to get places because it’s easier than walking. I’d rather read. I guess I’m the scholarly type.”
They rode home in silence. Diana climbed out quickly and called out her thanks.
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her,” Jesse said to her mother. “We don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Having something in common helps, but it’s not absolutely necessary for friendship,” her mother commented.
The next morning Jesse again sat on the front porch with her math book. She opened the book and stared for a few minutes at the page. What could be more boring than math?
She saw Diana come out her front door. Diana waved to Jesse, hesitated for a moment, then crossed the street. Jesse smiled and motioned for Diana to sit down.
“What are you doing?” Diana asked, looking at the books.
“I did so poorly in math last year that I have to take the course at home and send the work sheets in.”
“Why did you do so badly?”
“I guess I was more interested in swimming and racing. The teacher gave us a lot of homework, and I didn’t do most of it. I think math is pretty hard—and boring.”
“I’ll help you. I like math.”
Jesse smiled up at her. “Will you?” she said. “That would be great.”
“Well, Jesse, we have to exercise our minds, too, you know,” Diana said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Jesse looked at Diana for a moment and then laughed. “Suppose you help me learn math, and I’ll help you with your swimming.”
“Sounds like a good summer,” Diana answered with a smile.

In December of 1987, four months after Soni and I were married, we joined her family on a vacation to Hawaii. One afternoon, her family was on Waikiki Beach enjoying the sun and sand. However, I wanted to do something a bit more adventurous. I convinced Soni and her grandmother to come with me to the famous Hanauma Bay, located on the other side of the island. At the bay, the locals were body surfing. It looked fun and I wanted to try. Despite my Idaho tan line, I started to feel like a native in the water. My confidence grew as I learned to dive under the big waves to avoid getting pummeled. I was enjoying myself until three large waves came ashore. I dodged the waves, but had not planned on the rush of water going out to sea. I found myself trapped in a river like current. In a short amount of time, I was far from the safety of the beach. I panicked! I had no life preserver or understanding of what was happening. All I could think about was the big sharks that were certainly lurking beneath. I tried to swim against the current, but my efforts proved futile. I was frantic! A few yards away from me was a young man with a surfboard. Desperately, I swam to him and grabbed for his board pleading for help. Not knowing what was going on, he jerked the board out of my hands and I went down under the water again. Fighting to get to the surface and gasping for air, I choked up the seawater that was threatening to fill my lungs. I was certain, that I was going to die! I needed help. Surrounded by complete despair, I felt so helpless, hopeless, and full of fear. I had never been more aware of my limitations and nothingness while in this awful condition. I wanted to live.

When I was in drowning in Hanauma Bay, I was certain I was going to die. Struggling to stay afloat and choking up seawater, I was desperate and eager for help. I did not know how to save myself. There was a man that was several yards away. He understood my situation and knew how to help. He encouraged me to calm down, pointed me at a 45-degree angle back to shore, and directed me to swim. I followed his council exactly, and within moments, I was back safely on the beach. Just like this man who helped me, I know that Jesus Christ knows our plight and how best to help.

A few years ago my son served in the Ukraine Donetsk Mission. About a year and a half into his mission, I received a letter from two sister missionaries serving in that same area. While attending fast and testimony meeting one Sunday, they had heard a touching story shared by a recent convert that involved my son and his companion. The sister missionaries were sure my son would never share this incident, so they took it upon themselves to write and tell me the story. This is the story they shared in their letter:

A brother who was a recent convert in a small branch in eastern Ukraine was a hardworking father who made very little income from his job but tried diligently to provide for his family. All of his income went to buy food and to pay rent, utilities, and tithing. There was nothing left over for extras. But the one thing this dear brother wanted most of all was a tie to wear to church when he could bless the sacrament.

During the preceding couple of months he had saved a few pennies from each of his paychecks and put the money in a small leather coin purse with the hope that one day he would finally be able to purchase a tie to wear to church. By the week before fast and testimony meeting he had gathered sufficient funds to purchase his tie. He was so excited! Then, in the middle of the week, a family member became ill, and the saved tie funds were needed to purchase medicine. This dear brother was quite disappointed that another Sunday would go by without a tie. The days preceding church he silently prayed that somehow he could acquire a tie—not an expensive tie, just a simple, plain tie—so he could respectfully administer the sacrament of the Lord.

Late Saturday afternoon there was a knock at his apartment door, and when he opened the door there stood Elder Abegglen and his companion. As he gazed down at Elder Abegglen’s hands, his eyes locked on a tie the missionary was holding.

“I understand you can use this tie,” said Elder Abegglen.

With tears in his eyes, this good brother said, “I am here today to tell you God knows the simple desires of our hearts, and He sends forth His servants to answer our prayers.”

I remember a young couple just out of college. One parent gave them a home; the other parent gave them furnishings and a new car. They had everything in the world given to them. Within three years they were divorced. They hadn’t worked and sacrificed. They had leaned on each other and on their parents as a crutch, had crippled themselves, and hadn’t grown. They hadn’t learned the hard part. They hadn’t worried about making their marriage work. Make sure you sacrifice, share, and grow together.

“Teacher! teacher! Please run now they are coming after you,” the student in a black hijab shouted at me. I couldn’t figure out why she said that. I was serving as a teacher in a village in the northern part of the country as a corper in the compulsory national youth service scheme.
Again, the warning sounded and this time, all the students in the class ran away leaving me behind. As I came out of the classroom, I saw large group of people gruesomely hacking some of my colleagues down. “What in the world is this?” I asked only to discover that I was asking the empty walls and I immediately took to my heels as the irate mobs saw me and started running towards my direction. As I ran and jumped trenches in the bush, I saw charred and dismembered bodies of old and young people.
The mobs chased me for what seemed like ages determined to do their worst. I fell into a hole and passed out. I must have stayed in the hole for many hours as it was now dark when I regained consciousness. Minutes later I heard voices of people searching for me saying, “We must find him and kill him! He is somewhere around here! He is an infidel, a Christian!” I was so afraid and started praying. As I prayed, I felt an overwhelming assuring power come over as if to say, “Be still, I am with you always.” I got up and climbed out of the hole and started saying these words as I walked aimlessly “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4) then the sound of a gunshot and flickers of torch lights interrupted me.
Thank God! The soldiers came to my rescue. Days later as we went to corper’s lodge to pick our belongings, all had been burnt except my Book of Mormon.

When Henry and Mary entered Salt Lake City on September 15, 1866, it had been more than four years since they had seen their mother. Henry walked proudly at the head of the train, his clothes in tatters, his hair sticking out in all directions. In honor of the occasion, he was wearing a pair of boots, many sizes too large, that he had discovered in a burned-out pony express station.
His mother was nowhere to be seen. When the company halted for the last time, Henry sat on a crate in a wagon, heartsick, watching the happy reunions between loved ones. At last he saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl approaching. He went to her and said, “Hey, Mother.”
“Is that you, Henry?” she asked. “Where is Mary?” Mary was hiding inside a wagon, ashamed of her ragged clothing. The family was finally reunited. However, there was sad news. During her journey to Utah, Sister Roberts had watched her baby, Thomas, weaken and die. She had buried him in a donated breadbox coffin along the way.

My name is Kathryn Fifield, and I live in Moscow, Idaho. I’m eleven years old, and I think temples are wonderful! I know a little bit about them because when I was eight, I got to go inside the Portland Oregon Temple.
When the Church leaders announced that a new temple would be built nearby, everyone was very excited. My parents were especially happy because they knew that they could go to the temple more often.
We drove to Portland when the temple was being built. It was standing in the middle of a grove of fir trees. The trees were so tall that I had to lean way back to see the tops. But the temple spires were just as tall! The spires were only metal cages then, but to me they looked like arms reaching to heaven, and I knew that this temple would be a holy place.
Finally the workers finished putting marble on the outside, and it really looked like a temple. My mom and dad said that when it was all finished, we would get to go inside. There would be an open house so that anyone who wanted to could see the inside of the temple. After that, there would be a special meeting called a dedication that worthy members were invited to. After the dedication, only members of the Church who had recommends from their bishop/branch president and stake/district president could go inside.
I felt really special to be able to go to the open house. My family drove to the temple on Saturday morning. When we arrived there, we had to stand in a long line that went halfway around the building! I guess a lot of people wanted to see the temple. I know that most of those people in line didn’t know what a temple was, because I heard them asking each other questions. Some of them thought that we went to church every Sunday at the temple.
It wasn’t too hard to wait in line, because all along the way there were television screens set up for us to see. A program on them told about what temples are and how we use them. I guess those people learned that we don’t use the temple for our Sunday meetings.
When we finally reached the door, some helpers put white paper booties over our shoes. That was to keep the new carpets clean and to show respect.
Inside the temple it was very quiet. Nobody talked or even whispered. There were special guides to show us where to go, but they didn’t talk to us. They just smiled as we walked by. We looked, and we read the information on the signs that explained what each room was, but we didn’t say anything.
When we walked through the big chapel, we heard soft music being played on the organ. The tour included the baptismal font with the sculpture of twelve white oxen holding it up (that was my favorite). We also saw the sealing rooms, where people get married for eternity. Inside the sealing rooms were mirrors on opposite walls. When I looked in one mirror, I could see my family going on forever.
The most beautiful room was the celestial room. It was all white and gold, with pretty couches and chairs. In the middle of the ceiling was a huge, sparkling gold chandelier. It had gold “arms” with tiny light bulbs surrounded by pieces of crystal. I thought it looked like sunshine sparkling through icicles.
The thing I remember most about the inside of the temple is how reverent I felt. I didn’t want to go back outside, because it felt so nice to be in that beautiful, quiet place. It made me feel warm and happy to walk through the rooms of the temple. After we were outside again, I heard a man say it made him feel like he was already in heaven. I felt that way too.
A few weeks after the temple open house, Mom and Dad and I went to the dedication. I was eight years old, and I had been baptized, so I was old enough to go.
We sat on chairs in the hall right by the celestial room. There were people in nearly every room in the temple. Television screens were put in them so that the people could watch the meeting—we wouldn’t have all fit into the celestial room, where the prophet was seated. The choir sat in front of us, and when it was time for them to sing, they walked around a little wall and went into the celestial room, where President Benson was. It was exciting to think that President Benson was just on the other side of the wall from me!
I watched the meeting on the video screen and listened carefully to the talks. When the choir sang, the music made me happy all over. When President Benson talked, he told us that he loved all of us. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, too, but I didn’t say anything. I just smiled all over.
During this meeting, I felt even more reverent than I’d felt at the open house. After the special prayer, the temple was God’s house and not just a building anymore. I felt that Jesus and Heavenly Father were right there with us.
When I’m twelve, I’ll be able to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. I can hardly wait until then! But if I try really hard, I have that special reverent feeling in other places too. If I find a quiet place to pray and really think about Jesus and Heavenly Father, I feel that way. In church, when I try my hardest to listen to the speakers or to my teacher, I feel that way. I can even feel reverent when I walk in the forest or sit under the tree in my backyard. I’m practicing being reverent now so that when I go to the temple again, I’ll know just what to do.

I Love the Advice given to Andrew Jackson by his Mother
In 1781 Andrew Jackson, then 14 years of age, enlisted in the American army, was captured and thrown into prison where he had smallpox. His mother Elizabeth Hutchinson Jackson, through exchange arranged for his release and nursed him back to health. Responding to an urgent appeal, she left him to go to Charleston to nurse some sick neighbors who were confined there on a British hospital ship. This errand of mercy cost her life. She caught yellow fever and died.
Almost her last words to her young son were:
"Andrew, if I should not see you again, I wish you to remember and treasure up some things I have already said to you; in this world you will have to make your own way. To do that you must have friends. You can make friends by being honest and you can keep them by being steadfast. You must keep in mind that friends worth having will in the long run expect as much from you as they give to you. To forget an obligation or to be ungrateful for a kindness is a base crime - not merely a fault or a sin but an actual crime. Men guilty of it sooner or later must suffer the penalty... None will respect you more than you respect yourself... Never wound the feelings of others. Never brook wanton outrage upon your own feelings." (By Unknown)

In the 1970s, under the direction of President Spencer W. Kimball, a scripture committee of faithful scholars was formed to create what would become the LDS edition of the scriptures.

One of those scholars was a dear friend and mentor of mine, Dr. D. Kelly Ogden. He was a relatively new professor of Ancient Scripture at Brigham Young University at the time. Pay attention as you listen to a journal entry he wrote in October of 1976. Note the way he persists even though he doesn’t understand the scope of his contribution.

“When I came to Brigham Young University a year ago … I came here with a fairly empty feeling, an uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty for the future and a definite feeling of dependence on Heavenly Father. Following a couple of months of pleading and searching, life began moving in … exciting directions—the Lord was guiding me into new, unusual paths, and only He knew why. I’ve been thinking these days of how the Lord has prepared me over the years for my contribution to this Bible Aids project: my training in English grammar, spelling, diction, and reading and proof-reading skills combined with a quickened understanding of gospel doctrine and extensive memorization, study, and cross-referenced annotations of the scriptures. All these skills acquired year by year are invaluable to me.”

Living in the deserts of Saudi Arabia are tribes of nomads called Bedouins. These people live in tents made of goat’s hair or wool, and they survive by keeping herds of sheep, goats, and camels. In one of these Bedouin tribes there once lived a very rich man. His name was Sheikh Bushnir, and he was the chief of his tribe.
One day Sheikh Bushnir became so ill with a fever that he thought he might die. It was true that he had a son to live on after him, but Ahmed, his son, was not a good man. He never tended the sheep or milked the goats, he was very greedy, and he was always spending his father’s money foolishly.
Even so, Sheikh Bushnir loved his son very much. One day the sheikh called his son to his bedside. “Ahmed,” he said weakly, “I am about to pass into the next life.”
Listening intently to his father’s words, Ahmed began to cry. Even though he was not a good man, he loved his father.
“Do not cry, my son,” said Sheikh Bushnir kindly. “All men—no matter how rich or great they are—must die. Now listen to what I have to say. Before I die, I want to give you a most wonderful gift.”
Ahmed wiped away his tears and moved closer to his father. “A gift?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered his father. “A most wonderful gift, a gift to be cherished above all others.”
“Is it worth more than a herd of camels?” asked Ahmed, his concern for his father replaced by his greed.
“It is worth much more than a herd of camels,” said his father.
“Is it worth more than gold or jewels?” asked Ahmed.
“More than even gold or jewels, my son. But the gift lies at the end of a long journey.”
Slowly Ahmed’s father spread out a map on the bed. The map was very wrinkled from having been folded and unfolded many times. “Here is where it is,” said Ahmed’s father as he pointed to a dark, round spot on the map.
“But that is in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali (Empty Quarter)!” gasped Ahmed.
“Yes,” said his father. “That is where the gift is buried.”
Ahmed looked sad as his father folded up the map. The Rub’ al Khali was a great desert where no one lived. Even for a Bedouin who was used to the hot desert, it would be a dangerous trip.
“Do you want the gift enough to risk your life for it?” asked his father.
Ahmed was silent for a long time. Finally his greed overcame his prudence. “Yes!” he cried. “For such a wonderful gift I will make the journey, no matter how dangerous it is.”
“Good,” said the sheikh. “You must leave at once. My mind will not rest until I know that you have made the journey and returned safely.”
“I shall do as you say,” said Ahmed, and he dashed from his father’s tent to make preparations.
The next morning Ahmed said good-bye to his father. Then he climbed onto his camel and set out alone into the desert. He knew that it would be safer to travel with one of the other young men from his tribe, but he did not want to share the wonderful gift with anyone.
The map outlined mile after mile of desert, but it revealed nothing about the burning sun and the hot desert winds. Whenever Ahmed thought of turning back, though, he remembered the wonderful gift waiting ahead, and his journey did not seem quite so harsh.
For three days Ahmed pushed deeper and deeper into the desert. His water was running low. He had been so anxious to leave that he had not planned well for the journey. Soon only one of his two goatskin bags of water remained. In the desert heat even a camel needs some water. But because Ahmed thought only of himself, he gave none of the water to his mount. That night while Ahmed slept, the camel ran off in search of water.
The next morning Ahmed realized that he should have shared the water with the camel. With the water that was left, Ahmed thought he might be able to make it back to the camp of a traveling caravan he had seen. However, his greed was too strong to allow him to go back without the gift, so he foolishly continued his journey on foot.
By the end of the fourth day Ahmed had used the rest of his water. He had only one wish: to see the wonderful gift before he died.
By the morning of the fifth day Ahmed was so weak that he could only crawl across the burning sand. Huge red blisters covered his hands and feet and knees. His eyes were almost swollen shut from the relentless pelting of the blowing sand. His lips were cracked and bleeding. Finally, when he thought he could go no farther, he came upon a small circle of stones. According to the map, this was where the gift lay buried!
Ahmed became frustrated as he scratched and clawed at the earth. Each time he pulled a handful of sand from the hole he was digging, more sand poured down from the sides. For hours he worked under the blistering sun. Finally Ahmed’s fingers touched a hard surface. He brushed the sand away and discovered a wooden chest. With his remaining strength, he tugged and pulled the chest from the hole.
Ahmed stared at the chest he had traveled so far to find. He was about to receive the most wonderful gift in the world, and he would not be able to enjoy it. As he fumbled with the latch on the chest, he thought, At least I can look at the gift I’ve given my life to find.
Ahmed began to cry when he saw what was in the chest. There were no jewels or golden coins. But there was something much more wonderful—three goatskin bags filled with water!
With gratitude and joy, Ahmed unstoppered one of the bags and brought it to his lips. Never before had water tasted so good. Never before had life seemed so sweet.
When he finished drinking, Ahmed looked more closely at the chest. Under one of the remaining goatskin bags was a note. He quickly opened it and read:
My Beloved Son,
I hope you are not disappointed by what you have found in the chest. I sent my men ahead of you to bury the priceless water. I knew that when I told you about the “wonderful gift,” you would rush foolishly into the desert. I also knew that because of your greed, you would give no thought for your life. That is why I buried water, not gold.
I did not lie to you, my son, when I told you of the wonderful gift. For the water in this chest has probably saved your life. And life, my son, is the most wonderful gift a man can receive.
Go now, Ahmed, with your gift of life and spend it as you like. Prize it above all other things, and you shall never be poor.
Love,
Your father
Ahmed carefully folded up the note and wiped the tears from his eyes. Feeling stronger, he tied the three goatskin bags together and tossed them over his shoulder.
Slowly Ahmed stood. He looked at the wooden chest one last time and smiled. Never again would he risk his life for gold or jewels. He would cherish his life and use it wisely. Yes, he had come a long way to find a gift that had always been his. But surely he was a richer man returning home than when he had left.

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University letterhead in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.
I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you? Cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”
“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”
“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”
“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”
She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”
“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.
“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”
I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?
Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”
“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”
“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”
He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?
Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”
I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”
She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?
After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a little girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.
But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in real life. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?
Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful band-aid on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle fingers against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.
I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!
The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.
By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”