Gospel Story Finder

Numerous individuals and couples have served both international and local welfare missions. The variety and scope of their service grew to span both the globe and the range of human need. As they have served on projects including instruction and practical help on food security, medical aid, sewing, clean water projects, and literacy to help for the disabled, welfare missionaries have followed the Savior’s example to care for those in need. Their reports show the spiritual dimension of this temporal service. Sister Connie Polve and her companion, both nurses serving welfare missions in Paraguay, treated an infant suffering from a severe skin infection. She reported, “I distinctly felt the Spirit of the Holy Ghost descend upon me and I knew that I was no longer operating under my own direction, but was indeed being a literal tool in the hand of the Lord to do a work for Him upon the earth.” The infant recovered, and the family—once “lost, timid people”—radiated “strength and [the] light of Christ [in] their countenances.”11 Today, over 11,000 missionaries care for those in need in 188 countries.12

Let me share with you an experience that taught me this lesson very well. My mission call was originally to Brazil. When I arrived at the old LTM in Provo, I was the only sister who would be learning Portuguese. The biggest problem was studying the language. The rules forbade elders studying with sisters and I didn't see how I was ever going to learn to speak Portuguese if I couldn't practice with someone. Finally, as a compromise, I was allowed to study with an elder if we sat in the cafeteria. Generally though, I spent much of my study time alone. One day I was studying the discussion about the Savior's role as Creator and Redeemer. I was alone with my thoughts and with the truths of the lesson. In that tiny classroom I had one of the most significant testimony building experiences of my life. The sweetness of redemption and the love of the Savior filled my heart and I felt his encouragement.

Because we were unable to get visas to travel to Brazil, my district was sent to the New York City Mission. When we arrived the mission president told me that I was creating severe problems for him because he now had an uneven number of sisters and no apartments in the mission would accommodate three sisters. After a few days of pondering, however, he sent me to Manchester, Connecticut.

It wasn't long after arriving in Manchester that I met Jane, a young woman who was investigating the Church. Unfortunately I had replaced her favorite sister. She even wrote to the mission president about having me exchanged for her favorite sister but the mission president denied her request. One night Jane had come to our apartment for a lesson. It just happened to be that lesson on Jesus Christ, the Creator and Redeemer. From the minute we started the lesson something was wrong. Jane was acting flippant, almost rude. She wouldn't answer questions except with silly or inane answers. I tried to be patient, but finally, I could stand the mockery no longer. I slammed the flip chart shut and said, "this is too important to me to continue with you acting this way. Either cut the smart stuff and listen or get out."

Jane accepted my gentle invitation and got out. We didn't see her for days. My companions were sure that I had offended our golden contact and driven her from the Church. I was almost sure I had. It was gloomy. I wondered why the Lord had called me to Brazil, sent me through an intensive language course, just so that I could go to Connecticut and offend people in English.

After what seemed forever, but I think was really only about two weeks, Jane called and invited us to her home for a slide show. We arrived somewhat wary but Jane launched into a history of her family vacations. Jane's travelogue covered most of the eastern seaboard and then headed west. Suddenly, a slide of Temple Square in Salt Lake City flashed onto the wall. Jane said, "This is Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, the headquarters of the Church I want to join."

We were amazed and thrilled. Jane was baptized and two months later I was reassigned to the Phillippines, the Church having given up on getting me a visa to Brazil. Jane served a mission in Arizona a few months later. After her mission she called me. She said that on that night I had told her to listen or get out she had made up her mind to try an experiment before she came to the discussion. She had read the Book of Mormon completely and knew it was true. She knew what we were teaching her was true. But, she said, "I didn't know if it was important." She decided to test us by being obnoxious. She told herself that she would know whether the truth was important by how we responded to her rude behavior. She then told me that she knew that the sister I replaced would probably have been so afraid of hurting her feelings that she would have let her be rude all night. She then said, "you made me know how important the gospel was and the reason I had to get out of the room was that I knew I had to make a life-changing decision."

Did I waste my time in the LTM learning a language I never used? Were my three months in the New York City mission a waste? Maybe if I were to use the world's measures the answers would be yes. How inefficient to study a language I would never use. How ridiculous to send me to Connecticut in a frozen winter dressed in my tropical Brazilian wardrobe when the Church could have just sent me straight from the LTM to the Philippines instead. But, if measured by what the Lord considered to be important for my learning and growth and for Jane's learning and growth, every experience I had better prepared me to be the Lord's instrument. Would he do all that for one soul? Or two souls? Yes, I believe he did.

From World War II comes a story of a young Utah boy who was called to serve his country in the faraway places across several time zones.

On his wrist he wore the conventional wristband watch to tell him the time in the area in which he was living. But strangely enough, he carried a larger, old-time heavier watch in his pocket, which gave another time of day. His buddies noted that frequently he would look at his wrist watch, then turn to the old-fashioned one in his pocket, and this led them, in their curiosity, to ask him why the additional watch. Unembarrassed, he promptly said:
“The wristwatch tells me the time here where we are, but the big watch which Pa gave me tells me what time it is in UTAH. You see,” he continued, “mine is a large family—a very close family. When the big watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rolling out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30, I know the whole family is around a well-spread table on their knees thanking the Lord for what’s on the table and asking Him to watch over me and keep me clean and honorable. It’s those things that make me want to fight when the goin’ gets tough. … I can find out what time it is here easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in UTAH.” (Adapted from Vaughn R. Kimball, “The Right Time at Home,” Reader’s Digest, May 1944, p. 43.)

I knew this family well. I knew the sailor slightly. I knew this father. His cows had to feed a large family, but his greater interest was the growing children who needed more than milk and bread. I have knelt in mighty prayer with this wonderful family. The home training has carried through to the eternal blessing of this large family.

One day I was sitting in the kitchen, thinking about all of the areas in my life in which I wanted to improve: family history research, regular exercise, time with my children, home organization—the list was long. The more I thought, the longer the list seemed to get. Where should I start? I wondered.
I decided to group the list into categories: (1) prayer, scripture study, and journal-keeping; (2) homemaking, laundry, and meal-planning; (3) personal fitness; (4) family activities and time with my children; and (5) books of remembrance, personal histories, and family history research.
Feeling overwhelmed, I asked my husband, Dan, who was standing at the sink, for his opinion. I handed the list to him and asked if he would number the categories in order, starting with the most important.
He didn’t have to look at the list for long before he handed it back, with a big smile on his face. He had numbered the categories, but he had started with number two. At the bottom of the page he had written, “#1. Be nice to Dan.”
We laughed and hugged, and the sun broke out. That number one I could do! I was no longer worried about accomplishing so many things at once. That list became a lifelong reminder, tucked into my book of remembrance, to help me remember his premium priority in my life.

Anja Pedersen, 16, lives in another Arctic city, Finnsness. On Sundays, she and her father, the only active members in town, drive two hours each way to Narvik, the nearest branch.
“I have a brother who says he could write five pages of things he thinks are wrong with the Church,” she says. “And I have a sister who thinks my father has brainwashed me. My mother and my other two brothers just don’t care. But I met a friend a year ago who asked me about the gospel. I had to read and study and I found things that I needed. My testimony grew stronger and stronger.”
Since then, she’s shared seven copies of the Book of Mormon with friends and given two copies to local libraries. She also wrote a seven-page report about the Doctrine and Covenants, which she read to her school religion class, and saved up enough money to take a trip to the temple that left her feeling “all warm inside.”

My second example comes from my own experience along my own Jericho Road. In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I yearned as only a boy can yearn for an electric toy train. I didn’t want the less expensive wind-up model train; rather, I wanted one that operated through the miracle of electricity. Economically, those years were very difficult, yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice, I am sure, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train.
For hours I ran the train, watching the engine first pull its rail cars forward, then push them backward around the track. Mother entered the living room and said to me that she had purchased a wind-up train for Mrs. Hansen’s son Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see the train. The engine was short and blocky—not long and sleek like the expensive model I had received. However, I did take notice of an oil tanker car that was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and I began to feel pangs of envy. I put up such a fuss that Mother finally gave in to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker car. She said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen, who was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, and was overjoyed as it pulled the little train around the track. Mother wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?” I felt a keen sense of guilt and became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a moment—I’ll be right back.”
As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran to our home, picked up the oil tanker car, plus an additional car of my own, ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, and said joyfully to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars that belong to your train.” Mark coupled the two extra cars to his train. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track and felt a supreme joy difficult to describe and impossible to forget.
Some remember Mother for the little poems she would make up and recite, others for the music she played, songs sung, favors given, or stories told; but I remember best that day we together traveled homeward along our Jericho Road and, like the good Samaritan, found a cherished opportunity to help.

I myself was blessed with an exemplary father. I recall that when I was a boy of about 12, my father became a candidate for the city council in our rather small community. He did not mount an extensive election campaign—all I remember was that Dad had my brothers and me distribute copies of a flyer door to door, urging people to vote for Paul Christofferson. There were a number of adults that I handed a flyer to who remarked that Paul was a good and honest man and that they would have no problem voting for him. My young boy heart swelled with pride in my father. It gave me confidence and a desire to follow in his footsteps. He was not perfect—no one is—but he was upright and good and an aspirational example for a son.

When I was 16 or 17 years old, my father had been out of town and my mother asked me if I could pick him up at the airport. This was before 9/11, so we were allowed to walk out to the gate where the plane docked to meet the passengers. As I was walking down the concourse to meet my father, I noticed that he was talking to an older gentleman in a suit and, as I got closer, I realized it was President Harold B. Lee. In the group I hung out with at that stage of my life, it wasn't very cool to be "churchy," but I wasn't completely clueless, so I knew what President Lee looked like.

I remember having two distinct impressions as I drew closer to them; first, that President Lee was shorter than I thought he was--perhaps seeing him on TV made me think he was larger than life. The second impression was that there was an almost visible spiritual presence that emanated from President Lee. I could not mistake that this man was remarkable, that there was something noble--even holy--about him.

A few years later, as a missionary in the old Language Training Mission at BYU, I watched the solemn assembly session where President Lee was sustained as President of the Church. I was deeply moved as I heard him speak. I learned about 18 months into my mission that he had suddenly passed away. I was shocked and saddened! I hardly knew President Spencer W. Kimball, but I felt that, if I was to testify to those in the mission field that we are led by prophets, I would need to gain a witness of President Kimball's divine calling as I had President Lee's. I prayed fervently for that witness. I can still picture that room in my mind as I prayed, and the strong assurance of the Spirit that President Kimball was the man whom the Lord wanted to lead the Church at that time.

As I lay in my bed that night, I watched each of my sisters and brothers in turn be taken down the stairs. I was the oldest child at home that year since my older sister had left on her mission. Below me in the living room, I heard the song over and over as each child was sung to. Then it was my turn. I followed Papa down the stairs into the living room. He sat in the big chair and opened his arms.

“Do you still want me to sit on your lap?” I asked.

“Of course,” he smiled. Gratefully, I climbed onto his lap and pulled my knees up to my chin, snuggling up next to him.

“This is my last night to be rocked,” I said.

“I know,” came his quiet reply.

As the first few strains of the familiar tune began in the tape recorder next to us, I thought back to all the years I had heard this song on Christmas Eve. Suddenly something in me wanted to stay. I was so warm and comfortable, and I had no idea what the future months and years would hold. I started to cry.

Don’t let this song end, I thought.

Papa began to sing.

Heaven bless you little one while you’re fast asleep.
You’ll awake to dancing toys,
Candy canes, Christmas joys.
And I pray your whole life through,
Angels will watch over you,
Loving you the way I do,
My little one, sleep well.

Each year before this night, the song had reminded me of Christmas and what the next morning would bring. But on this last time, I knew Papa was singing about life and the years ahead—not toys that would break or wear out, but eternal joys I would find on my journey through life, joys I was not even aware of now. On this night I heard the emotion of his voice as he sang for angels to watch over me, not just for tonight but for tomorrow night and all the nights that would follow when he wouldn’t be there.

I let my tears flow, as the last strains of music faded away. Papa and I watched the lights of the tree in the darkness, and we rocked and rocked, long after the song had ended.

As we rocked, I thought what our last night in heaven must have been like, the night before each of us came to earth to be born. Did Heavenly Father hold us close and tell us of the joys and dancing toys which we would find on the morrow? Did we cry and wish we could stay with him forever, even though we knew earth life would bring us more joys than we could imagine? He must have held us long after his song to us had ended, asking that angels would watch over us in our earthly journey, that our years away from him would be filled with happiness and would eventually lead us back to his presence.

I found comfort as I thought of my Heavenly Father that night, while my earthly father rocked me. Even though Papa couldn’t be there every day in the future to help me with each struggle I would face, my Father in Heaven would be there. No matter what the years ahead would bring, I would not only have the support of an earthly father but of my Heavenly Father. And he would guide my paths and bring me home for good. That night I felt he too was singing, “Loving you the way I do, my little one, sleep well.”

In the 1970s my father arrived on BYU campus to begin his studies. He was not the average BYU student, especially during that time period. My father had come to BYU from Venezuela, a country that many students at BYU had never even heard of at the time. He spoke virtually no English, and he was Catholic.
The way my father likes to tell the story, he boarded a plane to the United States, excited to venture outside of his conservative Catholic upbringing and expecting the secular American college experience he had seen in Hollywood movies. Imagine his shock when he discovered that his parents, my abuela and abuelo, had arranged for him to attend BYU so that a group of people known to him only as “the Mormons” could keep an eye on him while he was far from home.
My dad found himself in a strange place surrounded by people who were very different from him. He found the sights and smells of his tropical Caribbean home—mango trees, macaws, coffee, and the ocean—replaced by those of BYU. He was struck by the flowerbeds on campus, which changed with the seasons; the empty streets and closed storefronts every Sunday; and the snow. But the students and faculty of BYU welcomed him into the community with open arms. Professors invited my father to share his perspective and experiences in class; roommates and friends took my father skiing and on road trips to see the United States. A professor invited my father to live with his family for several months while my father adjusted to life here.
My father could have chosen to transfer to a different institution, but he returned to BYU every fall from Venezuela. He learned English here, and then he graduated with a bachelor’s degree. It has been almost forty years since my father was a student at BYU, but he remembers his time here very fondly. In fact, while I was growing up in Venezuela, my father could spot missionaries of the Church from a mile away. Even though he was not a Latter-day Saint, he would look for them and talk to them, often asking if they were BYU students.

When Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone was visiting our area for a conference, my wife and I wanted our family to know something about him and his family. So we read a story to our children about Elder Featherstone’s son, who hurt his leg in an accident.
The boy had wanted to compete in an upcoming track meet, but he couldn’t run in any of the events because of his hurt leg. However, at the meet he found an event he could enter—the sit-up contest. As the contest began, Sister Featherstone was worried when she saw how many sit-ups her son was doing. But he wouldn’t give up. He did 1,001 sit-ups, winning the blue ribbon.

Last winter my daughter had a white-knuckle experience driving in a severe snowstorm. She reminded me of a similar situation I had with my two sons many years ago. My youngest son, Joe, was three years old, and my son Larry was six. We were traveling by car from San Francisco to Utah in June. The weather had been very good.
As we started our ascent to the Donner Pass summit in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, suddenly and without warning an enormous snowstorm hit us. None of the drivers was prepared. A semitruck in front of us had jackknifed and was spread across two lanes. Other trucks and cars had slid off the freeway. One lane was open, and many vehicles, including ours, were desperately trying to gain traction to avoid the other vehicles. All traffic then came to a halt.
We were not prepared for this blizzard in June. We had no warm clothing, and our fuel was relatively low. I huddled with the two boys in an effort to keep us warm. After many hours, safety vehicles, snowplows, and tow trucks began to clear up the massive logjam of vehicles.
Eventually, a tow truck hauled us to a service station on the other side of the pass. I called my wife, knowing she would be worried because she had expected a call the prior evening. She asked if she could speak to the two boys. When it was the three-year-old’s turn, with a quivering voice, he said, “Hope ya know, we had a hard time!”
I could tell, as our three-year-old talked to his mother and told her of the hard time, he gained comfort and then reassurance. Our prayers are that way when we go to our Father in Heaven. We know He cares for us in our time of need.

Name: Brandon N.
Age: 14
Sport: Tae kwon do
Major Achievement: Undefeated UK tae kwon do champion in the 12- to 13-year old category at the Junior ITF Impact Competition; second place in the 14- to 17-year-old category as the youngest competitor.
“I spend six to seven hours training in tae kwon do every week. This is often difficult, as I need to balance this between my schoolwork and the gospel. I have been taught to keep important things first, so sometimes the odd training session gets missed.
“Tae kwon do has taught me that you get nothing in life unless you put in the effort. Since starting from a white belt, tae kwon do has been hard work. The first grade is a yellow tag, which means the earth as a seed is sown and takes root as training begins. This reminds me of the Aaronic Priesthood, becoming a deacon, teacher, and priest and preparing for the Melchizedek Priesthood. Seeds of the gospel are sown, and they too take root and develop into a strong tree with deep, strong roots. The gospel has the answers to challenges, and while tae kwon do is an art that develops me physically, it disciplines me mentally. I then use that discipline in my life and the gospel when things get hard or I feel fed up. Keeping the Word of Wisdom has made me strong. I am not very large in stature, yet on the day of the competition I fought off boys bigger than myself.
“Last October I moved into the 14 to 17 age category up to black belts. I was very scared when I saw my group. Not only was I the youngest (the rest in my group being 17), I was also the smallest. My dad, who is a black belt in tae kwon do, was a judge in my competition, and even he said he was praying I didn’t get killed! My sister, who is also a black belt, was judging in the next ring, and she said she never prayed so much! It was like David and Goliath.
“I couldn’t believe it when I won my first round, then second, and ended up in the final. Everybody had expected this competition would be just for experience for me. They were shocked when I got to the final. After being penalized three points, I lost by only two points to a 17-year-old black belt. I nearly won it, and that would have been a major achievement—a 14-year-old beating all the 17-year-olds. I knew my Heavenly Father had answered my prayers to do my best. I learned that faith without works is dead.”

My family went on a sailing trip and didn’t see land for over three weeks. After the first two weeks, we were hit by a crazy storm. Our sails broke in the wind, and waves crashed onto the deck, completely submerging the front of the boat. On top of all that, we were almost out of drinking water—so if we survived the storm, we still had that to worry about.
My family crammed down into the only dry part of the boat and prayed for almost an hour. I didn’t know if we’d survive the night, but I knew that, no matter what, I would be with my family because we were sealed together.
When we finished the prayer, we saw that the wind had settled down and the waves had stopped. Soon after, it started pouring rain, which is extremely rare in that part of the ocean. We used a tarp to fill our tanks and miraculously got enough water to finish the trip.
That experience showed me how powerful prayer can be and how much Heavenly Father cares about us. When I think back on that storm, I know the gospel is true and real.

Alex’s testimony was strengthened further following a dream he had in which he was called on a full-time mission. He began preparing but didn’t wait until he was 19 to begin sharing the gospel, starting with his own family.
“Alex always prayed for and encouraged his family,” says Bishop Sayas. “And he would always encourage his older brothers to attend church. The effort to bring his family back succeeded because of Alex.”
“It was Alex who was always working with us and with ward members on our behalf,” Carmen says. “They told us he was always praying for his parents to return to church. We’re grateful he didn’t give up on us.”
If Latter-day Saints are good examples, Alex says, others will eventually take notice. “If we are happy and content in the Church, others are going to want to partake of our happiness. If we endure and move forward, miracles can occur.”

When I was growing up, every year or so my stake would put on a road show. For weeks before the event, leaders in the wards would concoct unlikely plots, create ridiculous songs and dances, and coerce reluctant youth into wearing outlandish costumes. Our road shows could hardly be termed theater, but they were a lot of fun.
Of all the stake road shows I took part in, one in particular stands out in my memory. The year I was 16, the stake presidency, of which my father was a member, decided the wards would not be allowed to use glitter in their costumes or makeup. Although the shimmering flecks looked wonderful on stage under the spotlight, they invariably found their way into the carpets and furniture. Because the road show was to be held on Saturday night, the stake presidency hoped this measure would help keep the building clean for the Sabbath.
But in the enthusiasm and good-natured competition of that year’s road show, the stake presidency’s counsel unfortunately went largely unheeded. When the performances concluded, I looked for my dad among the members slowly trickling from the building. They all seemed to have had a night of friendship and amusement. When I finally found my father in one of the rooms used for preparation, I could see that he was not amused. He was walking slowly around the room, surveying the damage.
“Most of the wards used glitter,” I said, stating the obvious.
“It’s like this in almost all the rooms,” he said and sighed, pointing to the glitter scattered across the carpet. “Weren’t we clear about not using glitter?”
“I think you were,” I said, hoping to ease some of the tension.
When we found the rest of the family and went home, it was already late. After seeing the younger kids to bed, my father took his coat and the car keys and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back to the stake center,” he said quietly, “to see what I can do to get it ready for Sunday. Do you want to come?”
I didn’t have any special desire to spend what remained of my Saturday evening cleaning, but then I thought about him doing all that work alone.
By the time we reached the stake center, my dad’s attitude had changed. As we cleaned, he seemed less and less discouraged and even somewhat enthusiastic about the challenge before us. He spent the time asking me about school and my friends.
Although the cleaning took several hours, we both felt a certain pleasure in our work and tried to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t until after midnight that we felt the building was ready for church in the morning.
The next day, I felt special satisfaction as I looked through the clean rooms and remembered how they had appeared the night before. I considered telling my friends about my one-night stint at janitorial work, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, my father felt the same—to this day I can’t remember his mentioning that night to anyone.
Today when I think back to that road show, I’ve forgotten the humor, costumes, and music. What comes to my mind are images of my father vacuuming and sweeping and picking up glitter from the floor of the church—doing behind-the-scenes work in preparation for the Sabbath.

It would be an understatement to say that my husband and I were surprised to learn that, at age 40, I was expecting a baby. Complications in the pregnancy soon prompted the doctors to order complete bed rest for me. My husband gave me a priesthood blessing in which I was promised that if I would do as I was instructed by the doctors, all would be well.
But bed rest proved to be a difficult challenge as I tried to meet the needs of our two young children and keep myself occupied.
When the ward members realized I would be “confined for the duration,” dinners began arriving with regularity. My three-year-old son was often picked up to spend the day with friends. And when my six-year-old son got home from school, someone always seemed to drop in to check on him. Sisters came frequently to clean the house and do the laundry, often ending up sitting on my bed to visit.
More than two months before the baby was due, I went into early labor and our tiny, frail son was born. He was so ill that the doctors told us we should set our affairs in order and prepare for a funeral. We went in to see our tiny son, covered with wires and tubes, in a warming crib. With tears flowing freely, my husband and two other brethren anointed and blessed our little baby, John. John responded by beginning to fight for his life.
While my husband and I spent many days and nights at the hospital, our ward members continued their many acts of service and love for our family. More than once during the pregnancy and at least twice after the baby was born, the entire ward fasted and prayed for us.
On one occasion when we were permitted to take John to church even though he was still on oxygen, a mother approached us with her eight-year-old son. She quietly, almost reverently, asked if her son could see the baby. She explained that her son had caught the vision of serving and loving others by fasting and praying. He wanted to see how his faith and prayers had been answered. He looked at the baby and wept. He told his mother he was glad he could fast and pray. “After all,” he said, “look what Heavenly Father did.”
Today John is a vibrant, energetic, loving 17-year-old. He is a living testimony to the members of that generous ward and their commitment to faith and charity. Words cannot express the gratitude we feel toward them and our Heavenly Father.

When I was 11, my parents dropped me off at the Salt Lake City home of my great uncle Gaskell Romney. He was a patriarch, and, because he was my father’s uncle, he could give me, a boy from the mission field, a patriarchal blessing. I don’t think he even sat down to visit with me. He didn’t know me except as my father’s son. He just led me through the house to a room where a recording device was on a table. He sat me down facing a fireplace, put his hands on my head, and began to give first my lineage and then a blessing.
He began to tell me about the home in which I would someday be the father. That’s when I opened my eyes. I know the stones in the fireplace were there because I began to stare at them. I wondered, “How can this man know what is only in my heart?” He described in concrete detail what had been only a yearning, but I could recognize it. It was the desire of my heart, that future home and family that I thought was secret. But it was not secret, because God knew.

I lived through those hard years and saw firsthand what it was like. I had studied economics and business in college with the desire of becoming a banker. I completed my schooling shortly after the beginning of the depression and came to Salt Lake City, only to find that bankers were, as they then said, “ten cents a dozen.” I found a job in a department store and was paid fifteen dollars per week and was fortunate to have a job. I learned the rewards of hard work.

In nursery, little girls can sometimes get excited about their dresses. One day as I was playing with a couple of girls, one said, "I have a blue dress."
The other girl looked down at here yellow dress, a little sad. So being diplomatic, I said, "Yes, you do have a blue dress. And look, she has a yellow dress."
Even better, the girl with the blue dress said, "And I have polka-dots."
And the girl with the yellow dress said "and I have flowers."
I said, "And isn't that great!"
They both beamed.
Whether you have a blue dress with polka dots, or a yellow dress with flowers, or a red tie with stripes, or a blue tie with a diamond pattern, your uniqueness is good.