Gospel Story Finder

I have been privileged to see such courage shown by one of the young men I was honored to teach in Sunday School. It is with his permission that I share his story.

I first met Caden during his senior year of high school. Caden was outgoing and charismatic with a quick sense of humor. Although he had consistent attendance at church, it is fair to say church wasn't his first priority. Caden's time away from church included hanging out with friends, too often participating in activities that were not in keeping with church standards. And yet, Caden still attended church, sometimes bringing one of his friends to Sunday School with him.

As Caden neared the age of nineteen, he began to think about a mission. He knew his life was not in keeping with mission standards and made a commitment to meet with the bishop and make the changes necessary to go on a mission. This was not an easy process. It meant changing behaviors that had become comfortable habits. It also meant changing friends, never an easy task. Changes came slowly, sometimes with one step forward and two steps back. When his mission call came, we rejoiced in Caden's decision and hard work to become a missionary. On a brisk spring afternoon, Caden said good-bye to his family, squared his shoulders, and walked into the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.

I happened to be traveling home from a work related trip the day Caden would fly out to his mission. As I landed in the Salt Lake City airport, I realized I would likely be able to say good-bye to him. I checked the flight boards, found the appropriate destination, and began walking to the gate, eager to say good-bye to Caden as he departed for the mission field. I arrived at the gate to see a large group of smiling missionaries in suits and dresses. I scanned the group, looking for Caden. Not seeing his face, and assuming he was calling home, I asked the missionaries if this dear elder was part of their group. The once smiling faces became silent and sullen. One elder, large in stature, stood and told me he was Caden's companion. I smiled, happy to meet Caden's companion. The now quiet group of missionaries fixed their eyes on this elder as he explained my friend had gone home a few days before. I wished the group well, telling them to have a great two years.

I walked slowly away, pondering the sacrifices Caden had made in preparation for his mission, my heart broken, knowing how difficult this would be for Caden and his family.

The next day, I drove to Caden's home to let him know of my love for him. I chatted with his mother and learned Caden had something that did not get completely taken care of before he left for his mission. A zone leader in the MTC, Caden knew he could not continue without addressing the concern. In an act of courage, Caden met with his priesthood leader. Caden had a desire to return to the mission field and planned accordingly. Time passed and it soon became apparent a return to the mission field would require waiting a substantial amount of time. Caden had good family support. Caden and I would occasionally grab a soda and discuss his plans. During these visits, it became clear Caden was losing hope. He stopped planning to return to his mission and began planning how to move forward with his life.

Caden secured a job and began taking classes from a local university. He had a girlfriend who was not a member. It was their desire to marry, but Caden's girlfriend wanted to join the church before their marriage, something she knew would be difficult for her parents to accept. Eventually they were engaged and married, and, following the marriage, Caden's wife was baptized. Caden and his beautiful wife settled into their new ward. Both of them were working and began taking courses from the same local university. Neither of them had an interest in attending BYU-Idaho, but as they continued to faithfully turn to the Lord, their hearts were softened and they were led to BYU-Idaho.

Moving to Rexburg to attend school was another act of courage. Unsure of where they would live and how to pay for the expenses of being full-time students, Caden and his wife trusted in the Lord. I bumped into Caden and his wife a few times during their first semesters at BYU-Idaho. Caden reported he loved BYU-Idaho! His classes were challenging, but he was working hard and finding success in a difficult major. What I noticed most about my friend was the light, the pure light of Christ, in his eyes. Rather than forsake what he knew, in a difficult situation of his own making, he courageously and humbly turned to the Lord. The light that shone from his eyes was a testament the Lord will succor us when we turn to him in humility and do what we are asked to do with courage. As Caden acts in faith, he is becoming the man the Lord knows he can become; valiant, capable, and courageous. In a powerful postscript to this story, Caden and his wife were sealed in the temple and recently welcomed their first child, a beautiful daughter, into their family.

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.

Paula Reed had told herself that she was just another passenger as she boarded the bus and squeezed into a window seat. Just another college freshman, anonymous as the snow-covered fields and opaque sky that seemed to hold the bus in limbo, though she heard the wheels skimming over the wet freeway.
Only an occasional glance at her slender gold wristwatch told her that the miles were slipping by. And she looked at the bright digital numbers only in response to the anxious query of the elderly woman seated beside her as she hurriedly crocheted one last baby bootee for the family she was visiting this Christmas.
“Takes me months to get ready for the holidays, you know,” she sighed happily in between stitches. “I have 36 grandchildren. And then there’s the birthdays!”
At first Paula had followed the work of her plump fingers, noting that one of them bore a dull silver wedding band. Then the woman had glanced at her questioningly, and she turned a hot cheek to the window.
A nagging weariness eventually stung Paula’s eyes so that she closed them gratefully. Her secretarial job and a heavy load of classes had kept her mind occupied until now, though she was never able to push her parents’ divorce to a completely comfortable distance. Huddling deeper into the folds of her parka, Paula realized how unprepared she was to even contemplate her last phone call to Dad without opening her eyes to a burning stare.
“Dad? This is Paula.”
The long silence on the other end of the line had been broken too heartily as he answered, “Well, how are you doing?”
He tried to speak matter-of-factly, as if he took it for granted that she planned to spend the Christmas holidays in Virginia with her mother and 16-year-old Jeffrey. Paula had finally broken through the strained overtones of his monologue, surprising even herself by saying, “Dad, I want to come home for Christmas—please.”
At first he had protested that his celebration would be “minimal” because of the new print shop opening in Brookside. Yet it was the awkward silence with which her father accepted her decision that rang tauntingly through Paula’s mind, surrounding even the pleasant memories with reverberating pain.
A quivering hand patted her sleeve again and Paula checked her watch mechanically, before the woman could complete an inquiry. It was well past four o’clock. Centerville was less than an hour away.
Frowning ruefully at the nervous anticipation that knotted her stomach, Paula slipped a paperback volume of Don Quixote from her travel bag, then leaned forward slightly, into a comfortably studious pose. She stared at the pages in an effort to read thoughtfully, but wryly recalled a resolution to finish the book by the end of the year.
At one time an efficient daily planner had been the only key to her unruffled composure, but now she found herself measuring all that others did not perceive. As she considered the changes brought on by the past eight months, Paula felt her face settle into a rigid mask.
She tried to recall the expression on her father’s face when she received notice of her academic scholarship to Eastwood College nearly a year ago. Just before supper she had shown him the letter; it was the last time she saw his heavy black brows lift with a smile as he waltzed her around the dining room table, their laughter spilling a bit of chaos around the immaculate room.
They had not noticed her mother’s straight-lipped smile until their excitement subsided into the tense pause that sometimes preceded family prayer and the blessing of the food.
While she pretended to discern the scenes that passed beyond the steaming window, Paula questioned herself mercilessly as to why she had blithely over-looked those silences, the hollow exchanges that must have passed between her parents for months before they quietly announced their pending separation. Her few close friends had envied the relationship she shared with her father and brother. Jeff, though, had seen the break coming, or so he told her later, his dark eyes narrowing with unfamiliar accusation.
Paula had promised herself that she would never reflect on the delicate spring afternoon that had suddenly gone cold as her parents sat, waiting for responses, in the heavily shaded living room. Yet her own determination could not withstand the shock of it all; the image of her father’s trembling face remained trapped in her thoughts, alien and struggling for release. She had never seen him so uncertain before, yet when she felt his eyes searching her face, finding nothing, and searching again at another unexpected moment, Paula knew that her own expression closed abruptly. Her mother seemed less complex, isolated somehow in her discreet coolness. Paula’s graduation and the first weeks of summer were a blur of smiles and poses that she quickly assumed just to cope, while the divorce proceedings were being finalized.
It was all a hopeless masquerade, she concluded, as her finger traced an aimless design on the foggy window and the book slid shut in her lap. She could never know how long her family had sat together in church as shells of what they felt and understood; for a time it did not matter that they moved and spoke on the most fragile of surfaces.
Paula dropped her hand with a sigh. Perhaps Jeff was the most honest about the situation after all. During those last months she had dimly observed his struggles while his grades dropped and he stopped attending church meetings. Then the confrontations began, and she rehearsed his quarrels with Dad until the ache in her throat became unbearable. It was a relief to gather the travel bag and pillows into her lap when the bus pulled into the parking lot of the old Bluebird Motel and Cafe.
Christmas carols drifted fuzzily from the outdated speaker that Mattie Hall always placed above the front door of the lobby; the same rotund Santa beamed in red and white neon from a side window as Paula emerged in the cold gray air and inhaled deeply.
The sky had darkened by the time the family station wagon pulled up to the curb. Paula moved forward hesitantly as her father slid out of the driver’s seat and greeted her with a brief squeeze around the shoulders.
“I see you made it all right,” he said, more softly than usual, as he loaded her suitcases into the backseat. “I heard that a storm was coming in.”
“It was a long ride,” Paula answered, fingering the white fur of her mittens. “But you know the bus. It always comes through. Even when it’s loaded with grandmothers and college freshmen.”
She had hoped that he would laugh at that, but nothing more was said during the two miles home.
Only the headlights penetrated the dark quiet of the front yard as the car swung into the driveway. After her long absence, Paula allowed her eyes to seek mutely for familiar things—the rope swing, her mother’s rock garden, and the cluster of aspens where Jeff used to string lights to form a Christmas star each December. Daylight had faded completely, however, softening distinct forms with shadows and mounds of half-melted snow. The aspens laced black and silver above her head as she stood shivering on the lawn. Dad’s boots cracked an icy puddle as he approached the front door and she turned to follow him, noticing how the porch light accentuated the harsh new lines between his brows and on either side of his mouth.
He opened the door abruptly, causing Paula to catch her breath in a wave of cold blackness.
“I haven’t been home since yesterday morning. Sorry it’s so cold in here.”
“But where … ?” Paula’s question echoed away as her father hurried into the living room to build a fire.
“The new office in Brookside. I told you about it over the phone, remember? We’re doing good business there, but some equipment malfunctioned and I had to get it fixed on the button. Christmas rush, you know.”
The kindling began to snap softly, and he carefully added two logs to the blaze. They remained motionless in the frail warmth for a moment, watching the firelight play over the sooty hearth. When they removed their coats, Paula noted a slight lag and heaviness in his posture. His mouth drew down to one side self-consciously.
“I haven’t played much raquetball since my partner quit town.”
“What about Bobby Benson down the street?” Paula asked brightly, glad for a chance at conversation.
Dad shot her a cautious glance.
“I haven’t seen much of the boys since I asked to be released from the Young Men presidency.”
Paula turned away from the sight of his large slender hands smoothing the varnished surface of the baby grand piano. Last year the rowdy laughter of teenage boys—and Dad had laughed like a boy—dispelled the emptiness of this room as they played football together in the backyard. After an hour they had gulped root beer floats enthusiastically—even when he announced that they weren’t leaving behind a mess for her mother to clean up.
A curious anticipation enveloped Paula as she sifted idly through a stack of sheet music. The front window lacked a Christmas tree, and there was no porcelain Nativity set to arrange. Yet it was not the lack of festivity that teased her spirits.
Paula sat down at the piano without speaking. Dad’s hand dropped to his side as she painstakingly chorded the first measures of “Silent Night.”
Then, visualizing the ease with which her mother had filled the room with music, Paula played more softly until she stopped mid-phrase. She had not heard her father move in front of the fireplace where he stooped, hands clasped over his knees, as if he were listening to another late evening.
Suddenly, Paula felt smothered by the impact of undiscriminating change; she stared hotly at his profile as the hymnbook slapped the keyboard.
“Paula—don’t.”
She became vaguely aware of the unsteady hands cupping her shoulders.
“I guess I forgot—the piano will be gone in a few days. Your mother wants it, now that she’s found a bigger place—”
Paula waited intently, with her eyes straight ahead, as he looked down at her, then away, then back again. He sank down beside her, sighing, and said, “How about a cup of hot chocolate—or something to eat? It’s early yet, but you look tired.”
Almost against her will, Paula flung herself from the piano bench, took a deep breath and shouted, “You won’t tell me anything, will you? I’ve never understood anything since it—since Mom left. Jeff blamed me for not knowing. What am I supposed to do?”
She paused for a moment, instantly regretting her words.
“I know, Paula. I’m sorry.”
Dad sat down in his recliner, his expression dulled by the slanting shadows. When his fingers pressed tightly together, she realized, incredulously, that he had nothing more to say.
Hours must have passed, but Paula had seen only the rectangular light of her digital clock shift occasionally in the darkness. At one time she heard the soft rush of sleet against her window, but now the house and the wind settled into complete stillness.
Lying warm in her narrow bed, she could not help but relax in the subtle comfort of old books and pictures, the dusty gleam of her cherry-wood desk. Her bedroom afforded pleasantly dreamlike memories of hours spent reading or playing her guitar, conversations with Dad or her brother. With the remembering came a yearning to reach back, back—to restrain a passing innocence or a transient moment that could only be cupped in reverent hands. For the first time in weeks, Paula gave way to quiet prayer, her fingers clenching until they throbbed and trembled against her wet cheeks.
She did not know when she awoke to see her father bent over the bedside lamp, his hand poised on the tiny gold switch. As she sat up sleepily, Paula saw that the sagging vulnerability had eased from his face. He was looking at a miniature gilt music box that she always kept on the dresser, perfectly positioned on a round mirror.
“I’m sorry—about tonight.” Her hands brushed slightly to one side.
“I thought you’d gone to sleep …”
His voice deepened, then trailed off as he sat down on the rumpled bedspread. After a moment his eyes lifted to meet hers.
“I know you want to understand—you’ve put your whole mind to it.”
His gaze wandered over the pastel wallpaper and the grayish Priscilla curtains until it returned to her, helplessly.
The pain came to her again as she watched him. Then she remembered how emptily her thoughts had recaptured moments such as this and she settled back, waiting patiently, as her father studied his hands.
“I wish I could explain,” he continued at last. “But there is something that I can’t …”
He lifted his chin abruptly, then carefully picked up the music box. Paula watched, wonderingly, as he balanced it in his fingertips.
“You bought it for me in England, remember? The Christmas I was seven.”
She was surprised at his quiet smile that came with the words.
“You were frightened, almost, to keep such a thing. Then you made me tell you—over and over again—how I asked the tough little Scottish shopkeeper to find something for a ’brown-eyed bonnie lass,’ so that it would be just the right thing.”
Paula’s lips parted numbly as he placed the music box in her hand. She wound it up thoughtfully, then tilted her head to one side as they listened to the sparkling melody.
“There was no one quite like your dad then, was there?” He chuckled tightly and stared at the fringe of the matted rug. “I could do it all perfectly when it was near impossible for anyone else to even try. Makes a fellow feel pretty good …”
His eyes grew wet as he squeezed her hand.
“But sometimes it—can’t be—much as I try, or you. Sooner or later you have to see things differently. But you learn.” He nodded, musingly. “You’ll learn.”
He crossed the room and raised the window shade, staring into the darkness with slightly drawn brows. Paula felt for her robe, the fabric gradually warming as she went to his side.
“I love you, Dad,” she whispered.
The moon became a diffused glow, riding high beyond the cold glass. Something in her heart drew inward—his features looked suddenly worn, and he drew her closer. Her world would never again be the simple, secure place it had once seemed. But she knew that in spite of all they had lost, their love, at least, would endure. Huddled together, they peered out, apart from the fog-heavy night.

We live on a beautiful Pacific Island that does not have a temple. But members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in New Caledonia are familiar with traveling long distances to visit the house of the Lord.

My family and I saved our money during the COVID-19 pandemic and in December 2023, we were able to travel to Utah to visit our daughter and the many temples available there. After five years of not being able to do work for our ancestors, we had prepared 65 names to take to the temple during our stay.

It was a challenge to line up appointments for all the temple work we had planned for Utah. We were desperate to help our ancestors, and as our return date approached, our incredible adventure began—we secured four baptism sessions in four different temples on the same day.

We entered the baptistry at the Provo Utah Temple early in the morning, and I begged Heavenly Father to provide a miracle for the work we needed to do. I had faith that He would also want to see my ancestors baptized.

The patrons at the baptismal font were moving slower than usual that morning, but I explained our situation to a sister working in the temple, and she invited other willing patrons to help perform the work with us.

It was an incredible and emotional experience to witness all 65 ancestors baptized by proxy, one by one, after the significant effort we had made to find them! We were so grateful for this first miracle. The Spirit was strong, and we could feel the relief, gratitude and happiness from those 65 precious souls.

This sister who helped us—we call her our “Sister Miracle” now—invited us to her home, wanting to know more of our family’s story. Our two families enjoyed talking over waffles about missions, temple work, family history, and all our blessings from Heavenly Father.

As the evening ended, Sister Miracle asked for a priesthood blessing of comfort as she had just been diagnosed with aggressive cancer and was preparing for chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.

Together with her husband, I pronounced a blessing that her life would not be cut short, that she would see her children serve missions, and enjoy watching her grandchildren grow up.

Later, Sister Miracle shared with me about our visit:

“It was a tender mercy from the Lord, knowing that He was aware of me and my new trial with cancer. My faith was strengthened in Jesus Christ. I am blessed to have had this experience with my new friends from New Caledonia.”

She continued to share what she is learning:

“We all experience different trials and challenges in our lives. I am choosing to center my life on Jesus Christ and keep my covenants with Him. I have confidence that He will bless me in His perfect way. I often use the phrase ‘but if not’ in my prayers. I ask for healing and strength, but if I am not cured from cancer, I trust that He will bless me in His perfect way. I have confidence that He will provide miracles as well as little tender mercies along the way; to help me know He is aware of me.

“This message from Elder Soares explains how I feel: ‘I know that when the Lord sees even a spark of desire or a flicker of righteous effort in our willingness to center our lives on Him and on the ordinances and covenants, we make in His house, He will bless us, in His perfect way, with the miracles and tender mercies we need.’”

From the day of our first visit, we prayed for Sister Miracle. Treatments became more complicated, and her white blood cell count was often too low to continue chemotherapy at the same pace. Even with these complications, I had faith and trusted the Lord for her recovery.

Seven months later, Sister Miracle and her husband called me on my way to work. Through video chat, they explained the post-surgery results, after the cancer growth had been removed. Miraculously, the doctors found no cancer cells in that tissue. Words could not describe my joy and tears over this new miracle!

While such a miraculous response is not always the outcome in life’s challenges, Heavenly Father is aware of our needs and has provided strength through covenants with Him.

Indeed, for Sister Miracle, the sustaining help and love she felt from Heavenly Father was the real miracle in her life. As President Russell M. Nelson has said: “All those who have made a covenant with God have access to a special kind of love and mercy.”

He also said, “Every woman and every man who makes covenants with God and keeps those covenants, and who participates worthily in priesthood ordinances, has direct access to the power of God.”

I testify that, like our Sister Miracle, we can fully benefit from the infinite power and love of God through faith, covenants, service, and obedience. God is a God of miracles. He is loving and merciful. His Son is our Savior here on earth and beyond the veil. His power is infinite and available to all His children.

Several months after I regained my strength, we were caught in another violent storm, only this time at sea. The waves became so big they flipped our small boat over, throwing the three of us into the raging, churning ocean. When I found myself in the middle of a tumultuous sea, I was surprised, scared, and a little upset. “Why has this happened?” I thought. “I’m a missionary. Where is my protection? Missionaries aren’t supposed to swim.”

But swim I must if I wished to stay alive. Every time I complained I found myself underwater, so it didn’t take long to quit complaining. Things are how they are, and complaining doesn’t help. I needed every ounce of energy to keep my head above water and make it to shore. Having earned my Eagle Scout Award, I was a pretty confident swimmer, but over time the wind and the waves began to sap my strength. I never quit trying, but there came a time when my muscles simply would move no more.

I had a prayer in my heart, but still I began to sink. As I was going down for what could have been the last time, the Lord infused into my mind and heart a deep feeling of love for a very special person. It was as though I could see and hear her. Even though she was 8,000 miles away, the power of that love came rushing across those miles and, penetrating time and space, reached down and pulled me up—lifted me from the depths of darkness, despair, and death and brought me up to light and life and hope. With a sudden burst of energy I made it to shore, where I found my shipmates. Never underestimate the power of true love, for it knows no barriers.

Illustration by Brad Teare; The Lord Jesus Christ, by Del Parson © IRI
Emma tightened her grip on her backpack as she walked into her new classroom. It was the first day of school. She had her favorite dress on, and Mom had packed a special treat with lunch—animal crackers.
Today is going to be great, Emma thought to herself. As long as—
Emma stopped and stared across the classroom. There she was. Violet.
Last year Violet had hogged the monkey bars every recess. She had called Emma names. She had even stolen Emma’s best friend!
Violet saw Emma and stuck out her tongue. Emma glared back, gripping her backpack even harder. Violet had been mean all last year, and it seemed this year wouldn’t be any different.
“Welcome to a new year, class!” Miss Caldwell said from the front of the room. “Let’s assign seats.”
The desks were lined up in twos across the classroom. Miss Caldwell ran her finger down the roll, then she pointed at a pair of desks in the back. “Emma. You will sit back there.”
Emma sat down in one of the back desks. She hoped Liselle would sit next to her. Or Jaime. Or—
“Violet.”
Emma’s head jerked up. Did she hear that right?
Yes. Miss Caldwell was still pointing at the desk beside hers. “You will be Emma’s neighbor, Violet,” she said.
Violet trudged toward Emma with a frown. Emma put her head on her desk and stared at the wall. It was going to be a long year.
At math time Miss Caldwell wrote some problems on the board for the class to solve. “You may work alone or with your neighbor,” she said.
Emma quickly hunched over her paper, pretending like she was busy. The problems were pretty easy. She was just trying to avoid Violet. She hadn’t looked at her once all morning.
Something poked her shoulder. It felt like a pencil. Emma ignored it.
Another poke. Violet was poking her! Emma kept working stubbornly.
Violet’s third poke was hard enough to hurt. Emma could feel herself boiling up inside. Was the whole year going to be like this? She thought about raising her hand to tell Miss Caldwell. Or maybe she’d just give Violet another glare.
Then Emma heard a sniffle. Was someone crying? The pencil poked her again. She looked over and saw Violet staring at her. Her pencil was in her hand, and there were tears in her eyes. Her paper was covered in eraser smudges.
Violet twisted the pencil in her hands. “Can you help me?” she asked quietly.
Emma looked at her for a minute, shocked. Violet wanted her to help? After how mean she had always been? Emma turned back to her own paper. Violet could work alone. She didn’t deserve Emma’s help, even if she was her neighbor!
Emma silently faced forward. She could hear Violet crying softly next to her. The scriptures always said to love her neighbor—but Violet was different! Emma was only sitting next to her in class!
Emma went back to her own work. Then she stopped. Maybe Violet wasn’t different. Maybe when the scriptures said to love your neighbor, they meant everyone. Even the mean ones. Even if it was hard.
Emma sighed and slowly put her pencil down. She turned to Violet and tried her best to smile. “Can I help?” she asked.
Violet nodded, wiping her tears away with her hand.
Emma leaned over Violet’s paper and started helping with the first problem. She already had a warm feeling inside her. She wondered if Violet liked animal crackers.

Let me share with you one of my favorite and true love stories. I learned about the story very late in its development. One night I went with my husband to a company dinner party. I sat next to an older man who was there with his wife. She had suffered a stroke, so he would lean over to cut her meat and help her with her food. His manner was very tender and caring. As he finished the meal, I said to him, “You are so good to your wife.”

His reply: “Why shouldn’t I be? I love her.” Then he told me about their courtship and their life together. “The first time I saw her,” he said, “was at a party in Canada. She was giving a reading. She had long golden curls and wore a beautiful white eyelet dress with a pretty blue satin sash. I was so impressed by her that I told my mother that that was the woman I was going to marry. Mother laughingly indulged me. I went on my mission, and when I came home she was engaged to another. I was asked to take a special assignment by the bishop, and when I protested he told me that if I would always put the work of the Lord first I would find that the Lord would always take care of me. I made the long trek to Salt Lake City. When I came home, she had broken her engagement. We started to date, and then we married.”

His wife rarely accompanied him in public after that dinner. It wasn’t long until her condition worsened, and she was completely bedridden and virtually unable to speak. He was a General Authority and went out on his regular conference assignments to visit and counsel the Saints. He would always come home and tell her all about the conference. One day as he finished, he teased, “If you are not going to speak back to me, then I am not going to tell about my experiences. You must not love me anymore.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and with great effort she found enough strength to form the words, “I do love you.” It was difficult and extremely slow, but with great effort she got the words out. He decided he would never again treat their love lightly, for their love went beyond even her crippling physical impairment.

At the funeral of this special woman, Zina Card Brown, every speaker commented on her love both for her sweetheart, President Hugh B. Brown. President Marion G. Romney said, “Wherever she was she was a loving lady.” President N. Eldon Tanner declared that President Brown was so successful because of her love. President Kimball said that the love of President and Sister Brown was such that they would soon be together again everlastingly. Her love pulled them toward immortality—a beginning of eternity.

Let me tell you of some young people I know who have tried to provide for their missions, to whom you might provide additional help. A mother approached a mission president with this plea: “Could I get my son on a mission somehow? He’s my only hope! Unfortunately, his father is unable to provide well for the family. We have eight children. Our income is very meager. We eat only two meals a day. But this is a good boy. He wants to serve a mission. If we are very, very careful, we can provide a few pesos per month. Isn’t there some way he could serve a mission?”
Another young man lived on the outskirts of a large metropolitan area. There were no lights or water in the thin-walled, modest structure that served both as a home and a small shop. After his family’s conversion he attended seminary and developed an insatiable desire to learn. With great effort he entered the university, working part-time to buy books as well as to help support the family. When the desire to go on a mission became overwhelming, he had to double his efforts to save money for his mission. So he carried his books under one arm and his bag of wash rags, wax, and sponges in the other. Between classes he would go out and wash cars, then return for another class. The Lord blessed him with work. He multiplied his income until his leaders felt he had made the necessary sacrifice to help sustain himself.
There are scores of others, each one a lesson to all in the principle of obedience and sacrifice. A young lady with a great desire to fill a mission was counseled to buy ingredients, make cookies, and sell them at school during lunchtime. She did so. Then she bought more flour, baked more cookies, and continued this process for weeks, making a small amount of money each day to help toward her mission.
Are there not thousands of you listening today who are ready to match these two precious years of a young man’s life with sufficient additional funds from your abundance so that he can have the privilege of service? In this way, could you not become “nursing fathers and mothers” to these children of promise?
I call this matter to your attention for two reasons: First, time is of the essence! We need to get moving with the things of real import. The world must hear the gospel. Paul asks: “How shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent?” (Rom. 10:14–15.) And I ask, how shall they be sent today without sufficient means?
The second reason is the Lord counsels rather specifically about the wise use of property. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.)
Jacob counsels:
“Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance, that they may be rich like unto you.
“But before ye seek for riches, seek ye for the kingdom of God.
“And after ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches … to clothe the naked, and to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.” (Jacob 2:17–19.)
How blessed we would be if we could pattern our conduct after the Nephites described by Alma:
“And thus, in their prosperous circumstances, they did not send away any who were naked, or that were hungry, or that were athirst, or that were sick, or that had not been nourished; and they did not set their hearts upon riches; therefore they were liberal to all, both old and young, both bond and free, both male and female, whether out of the church or in the church.” (Alma 1:30.)
In our day the Lord has warned us sternly, “And again, I command thee that thou shalt not covet thine own property, but impart it freely.” (D&C 19:26, italics added.)
My brethren, we have been too casual about these matters in the past. There is work to do. We need your help to do it. The word is urgency and the time is now. Many of you have the power to open doors of opportunity for the service of others. May you see this opportunity as a means to wisely use the property with which the Lord has blessed you to help His work and to save your souls. I know many of you already contribute. I know He will keep His promises to you if you will keep your promises to serve. I testify that God lives. Jesus is the Christ. This is His church. This is His earth—and all things in it. We are but stewards over His goods. May we delight to share them, and may we realize the promise that “he who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come.” (D&C 59:23.) In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Hironui Johnston, 16, and his sister Merirani, 15, spend a lot of time at the Papeete Tahiti Temple.
They aren’t performing baptisms for the dead, except for a couple times each year. They aren’t even inside the temple. They’re on the temple grounds—not gardening or doing some other service project—just sitting or walking around. But always looking.
“I love to see the temple,” says Merirani. “We have a lot of good memories here.”
Hironui and Merirani go to the temple grounds because of how they feel there. It’s a place where they can get away from the world.
“Our neighborhood isn’t bad, but there are some bad kids there,” says Hironui. “So we spend time here. It feels so good to be on the temple grounds.”
Sometimes their whole family comes, whether for a family home evening activity or just to spend time together.
“Sometimes when we aren’t getting along, we come here to put things right again,” Hironui says. But even when the Johnstons aren’t at the temple, the temple is part of their lives.
“I think we have a picture of the temple in every room in our house,” Hironui says. “It’s beautiful. It reminds us that our family can be together forever. Seeing it helps us feel the same peaceful spirit.”
“We watch our parents go to the temple,” says Hironui. “We see them living worthy to go. We see how their temple attendance blesses us, and we choose to follow them.”
That love for the temple, which began with the Johnstons’ parents, has been passed on to Hironui and Merirani. And it won’t end there. Their actions can pass it on to the next generation.
“I want to have children someday,” says Merirani. “I want to teach them that the temple is the house of the Lord and that if we are faithful we can be together forever because of the temple.”
“The blessings of the temple go both ways. This generation is being blessed today. As they grow and do the work for their ancestors, those blessings reach into the past. And as this generation begins raising the next, those blessings will roll on into the future.
“The Lord has given us a real blessing by building His house in our land,” Merirani says. “But the greatest blessing is that through the ordinances of the temple, our ancestors and families can be sealed together, and we can all live with our Father again. I would do anything for that blessing.”

When I was 14, my school was across from a Latter-day Saint chapel. I watched men in white shirts going in and out of that big building. I wondered what they were doing inside.
One day my friends and I wanted to play football, but there was no more room on our school grounds. Someone said, “Let’s play at the church. They have a nice place outside to play.”
Two years later one of my brother’s friends invited my sister to go to the LDS Church, and I went along with her. I was excited to finally find out what they were doing inside that church.
When we got there, we saw some members playing a simple game. They looked so happy, and that got my attention. “Why are they so happy?” I wondered.
I found out when I took the missionary discussions and was baptized. Happiness comes from inside. My conversion changed my life, the life of my children, and generations ahead and behind.

“But I didn’t join right off,” Jack said. “I kind of sat back and doubted for a while, but I wish I hadn’t.” His Las Vegas excursion helped him appreciate the truths they were teaching him. “I looked around at the people there and thought ‘Lots of these people have money, but they’re still looking for something to make them happy,’” Jack said. Maybe he really could find what he was looking for in the Church.

He’d previously been attending Sunday School with a lackadaisical attitude, but now he decided to take the gospel seriously and learn some more. He began the missionary lessons and discovered that it would take the gospel to make him happy—happier than banking billions from bubble gum ever could. “Once the missionaries started teaching me, it only took about a month and a half before I was baptized,” he said.

Perhaps the most coveted patch issued for the 1983 jamboree was that of Hikemaster. These were the elite corps who guided the day and overnight hikes through the mountain trails. They had to be expert woodsmen, know the area perfectly, and have the leadership, survival, first-aid, and human relations skills to be in total control of the situation. They were responsible for the lives of their charges, and they had to pass stiff competition to gain the honor. A disproportionate number of this prestigious corps were LDS. Some estimated that LDS Scouts made up three-fourths of this group.
Calvin Takahashi of the Edmonton First Ward, Edmonton Alberta Stake, was one of the hikemasters. “Three guys from my ward are hikemasters,” he reported. “I really enjoy being out on the trail. Here at the jamboree we have to get up at 6:30 to pick up food, but when we’re on an overnight hike, we go to bed at ten and get up at ten the next day.”
Serving as hikemaster has been a great leadership training for Calvin. “When you’re up on the trail it’s you that’s in charge and that’s it. If anything goes wrong, you’re responsible to make sure that those people get back safely. Before I took the first group out, it was a little bit scary thinking about it, but now it’s second nature. But you’ve got to take charge. You can’t let people go off and do whatever they want. If they’re doing something that’s dangerous to themselves or the environment, you have to stop them, even if you know it’s going to disappoint them. I’ve been president of my deacons and teachers quorums, so that’s helped prepare me too.”

When Loni Frandsen was born in 1985, she was a giant compared to other “preemies” at the University of Utah Newborn Intensive Care Center. She weighed three pounds, ten ounces, but, still, her mother, Sharon, couldn’t find any clothes small enough to fit Loni properly. “We had a friend come in and bring a little Cabbage Patch doll dress, and she wore that her first Sunday. It was supposed to hit her at her knees, but it hit her ankles,” Sharon says. It took months for Loni to grow into the “preemie” clothes sold in stores.
Today, 12-year-old Loni, of the Jordan (Utah) Oaks Fifth Ward, can’t remember all of that trouble, but she’s heard enough about it to want to change things somehow. So on January 1, Loni set a goal to sew clothes small enough for babies as tiny as one or two pounds and donate them to the hospital.
“If she sets a goal, she does it,” says Sharon. “There is no stopping her.” Loni says she is always working on one goal or another. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s service oriented or meant for self-improvement; Loni is up to the challenge.
One year Loni decided to go without candy and sugary foods for a month. Another time she enlisted the help of her mother to clean all of the chairs in the Primary room. “That was a biggie,” Sharon says. “We washed every chair, and it took about three hours even with two of us.” The list could go on and on because Loni is a natural at setting goals and following through.
Her idea to sew “preemie” clothes has definitely been one of the larger goals on that list. But for Loni it was easy. She has been sewing since age eight and had no problem finding doll patterns to shrink down and follow. Within a week Loni had sewn eight outfits and delivered them to the newborns at the University of Utah Hospital.
A local television station got wind of what she was doing and picked up her story when Loni delivered the clothes to the hospital. A local viewer was impressed and donated several bolts of material to Loni for more clothes.
Loni quickly took up the challenge and sewed 18 more outfits. This time she made tiny jogging suits, dresses, and night clothes for the infants. On March 1 she returned to the hospital with another batch of clothes.
There she met Kimberly and Mark Graham, whose son Colton had been in the hospital for six weeks. Colton was born 13 weeks early and had only been dressed twice when Loni delivered the clothes. Kimberly was touched by Loni’s ability and desire to do this for her son and the other infants at the hospital. “It means a lot to the parents,” she says. “It’s especially nice because some of these people could really use this. Dressing their babies up lets them feel that they’re going to be okay and helps them realize that there are other [premature] babies out there.”
Many of the clothes Loni delivered will remain at the hospital for other infants to wear during their stay or until they grow into store-bought clothes. And, most likely, Loni Frandsen will show up again at the Newborn Intensive Care Center with an armful of clothes. For Loni service is an everyday act. She says that goals like this allow her to be an example. “[They] help me because I can do things for other people, just like Jesus would.” Loni couldn’t have said that any better.

The twenty-five children who are learning to read and write on Lubian Sequi’s patio are poor—too poor to afford shoes or uniforms or supplies for public school. Some have no beds at home, but sleep in cardboard boxes on the ground.
Sister Sequi is a small, lovely woman with a smile that warms and comforts. On the chalkboard she has written the words Dios Me Ama (“God Loves Me”). Besides teaching her students reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, science, and etiquette, Sister Sequi begins each day’s classes with a prayer and a lesson from the Bible. She also encourages the children to pray with their families. Sister Sequi provides pencils, notebooks, and chalk for the children who cannot afford them. She uses a lot of visual aids to help the children learn.
Sister Sequi has found most of her students on the streets of Santo Domingo. “Whenever I see a dirty, barefoot, or neglected child, I say to him, ‘Come here. Don’t be afraid. Where do you live?’” Then she goes home with the child to ask permission for the child to attend school in her home.
Once a month, she invites the parents to an evening meeting where they can see how their children are progressing. She also gives a talk to help the parents spiritually and morally. “Our intention is to teach the parents so that they can teach their children better,” she says. Although it is not Sister Sequi’s primary goal to convert, at least one student’s family has been baptized since coming to her school.

I remember especially one occasion. My brother and I were returning from school during the aftermath of a severe tropical storm. The trail that we usually followed had been covered by a mud slide. Being the resourceful young boys that we were, we decided that nothing could keep us from going home. On a nearby steep hillside was a drainage pipe situated quite high above the rocky ground. If we were to get to our village, we would need to walk along that pipe. The pipe was suspended over a stream which, although normally small, had turned into a rushing torrent of mud and water. Carrying our school bags, we went up the hill and continued our expedition.
We both began cautiously treading along the narrow, slippery drainage pipe. As I approached the other side, I looked back to see how my brother was doing. I was startled to see that he had made his way only halfway and had come to a complete stop. He, being older and wiser, had realized what a precarious perch we were on and had instinctively frozen in his tracks, unable to continue. It was a terrifying moment for us as we realized the danger he was in, paralyzed by fear and perched there on a slippery, narrow drainage pipe suspended above a torrential river.
Then I got a big surprise. I heard the loudest scream for help I have ever heard in my life. His incredible bellow echoed through the hills and valleys. Luckily, Aunt Gu Ma was working in the fields below and heard us. She came quickly to his rescue. She lovingly guided him along and led us both home to safety.

Shortly after I was called to serve as a General Authority Seventy, I had the opportunity to visit with President Russell M. Nelson for a few minutes. It was an unplanned encounter in the cafeteria, and he was so kind to invite Elder S. Mark Palmer and me to sit and enjoy lunch with him.
“What do we talk about during lunch with the prophet?” was the thought that came to my mind. So I decided to ask President Nelson if he had any counsel or guidance for me since I was just starting my calling. His answer was very simple and direct; he looked at me and said, “Elder Schmeil, you are called for what you can become.” I walked away from that experience pondering about what the Lord wants me to become. As I thought about this, I realized that He wants me to become a better husband, father, and son and a better servant. I then realized that all of this could be accomplished as I worked to become a better disciple of the Savior Jesus Christ.

Not long ago, one of my daughters came home from a date. I heard the garage door open, the car pull in, and the garage door close, but strangely, I could still hear the car running. Since I know this can be dangerous, I went to the garage to investigate. When I opened the car door, I found my daughter hunched over the steering wheel sobbing. She had just experienced a heart-wrenching break up with someone she cared deeply about. It was so hard for me to see this. I wanted to crawl into the car, take her into my arms, and just hold her. But somehow, I instinctively knew that she needed to be alone for a time. I turned off the car, quietly closed the door, and went inside. As I sat in the living room agonizing from a distance, the thought came to me that I was then experiencing, to a small degree, what the Father must have felt as he watched His perfect Son suffer when He withdrew His spirit. It was a meaningful lesson for me and one I doubt I could have learned with as much power and clarity in any other way.

This last fall, at the end of her first term in seventh grade, my 13-year-old daughter, Makell, arrived home after school concerned that she had lost her green notebook for her science class. This notebook had all her notes and assignments in it, and it was due to be handed in to her teacher the following week. As she had been working hard to get a good grade, she was very concerned that she was not able to find it.
Wanting to look one more time in her locker at the school, she asked if I would take her back to school and help her look for it. Finding no green notebook in her locker, she suggested that we check in each of her classrooms. Because it was late on a Friday afternoon and many teachers had left for the day, we were able to get into only a couple of classrooms. As we drove home together, Makell became more concerned. I tried to help her backtrack her steps of that day, identify the place where she had last seen the notebook, and devise plan B—just in case she should not be able to find it. Maybe she could call one of her friends to see if she could borrow their notebook over the weekend and copy the notes into a new notebook.
When we arrived home she tried to call a few of her friends. Unable to reach them, she began to look everywhere in our house. Later that night, after she had looked in every possible place, she came to talk to her mother and me. After reviewing all the places she had looked, my wife suggested that she say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to help her with her lost notebook. As a family we included Makell’s problem in our family prayer that evening.
The weekend passed, and Makell, still not able to find her green notebook, came to me Sunday evening to ask if I would be willing to drive her to school the next morning. She wanted to look in the classrooms that we were not able to get into the previous Friday. She especially wanted to look in the science classroom to see if her notebook was there. If it was not, she was hoping that my presence would help her negotiate an extension of the due date or find another option with the teacher.
When we arrived at the school, Makell first wanted to look in her science classroom. Meeting her science teacher at the door, she became more nervous and asked in a trembling voice if he had seen her green notebook. He told her that there were a few notebooks on the back table. Makell went to the table and recognized her lost green notebook! With huge relief showing on her face, she returned to where we were standing. The teacher commented to her that he had almost thrown away the notebooks that morning but had suddenly decided he’d better keep them.
Tears welled up in Makell’s eyes when she thanked her teacher, and they began to stream down her face as we walked out into the hallway. She needed a few minutes to pull herself together before her first class, so we went out to the car. As we sat for a few minutes, I asked her how she knew where to look for her green notebook. Her sweet, simple response reminded me of an important concept. She replied, “Dad, I just listened after I prayed.”

A wonderful example of a physical building anchored to a firm foundation is that of the Salt Lake Temple. The groundbreaking for that temple took place in 1853. Using blocks of granite stone cut and hauled from a nearby canyon, work proceeded slowing but steadily on the 32-foot deep foundation until the approach of Johnston's Army in 1857. At that point the Saints buried the foundation of the temple to make the area look like a plowed field.

After peace was restored and work resumed, the dirt was removed. But at that point, cracks were discovered in a few of the foundation stones. The prophet Brigham Young had the entire foundation removed. After much discussion and with the guidance of the Lord as to how the foundation should be designed and built, it was redone based on that new design. When asked about all the additional work required, President Young replied, "When the Temple is built I want it to stand through the millennium [along with] many other temples that will yet be built." What a wonderful example of building on a firm foundation.

I came out of the bishop’s office wondering how I could ever be the Primary president I had just told the bishop I would be. I had been taught that with the Lord’s help we can do anything that is asked of us, but this time I truly felt the weight of my new responsibility.
The first thing I was supposed to do was to let the bishop know who I wanted for counselors. Being new in the ward, I didn’t know many people, even though we lived in the area where my husband had been raised. But the bishop told me to make it a matter of prayer and fasting, and it was amazing to me to see this principle work. During the week I seemed to be drawn to two ladies’ names. These special women did become my counselors, and as time went on I could see the influence of the Lord in the matter.