Gospel Story Finder

Molly woke up early. It was a special day because Molly had something very important to tell Daddy.
Molly climbed up onto her chair for breakfast and smiled. She wanted to tell Daddy her special secret right away, but Mommy and Daddy were talking. So Molly ate her cereal instead.
Molly helped Daddy fix the car. She handed Daddy wrenches and screwdrivers and kept him company. It was a good time to tell Daddy her special secret.
“Daddy?” Molly began.
“Yes, Molly?” Daddy said. But when Daddy sat up, he hit his head and grumbled. So Molly just smiled and gave him another wrench.
After lunch Daddy and Mommy washed dishes. Molly colored in a coloring book. She colored an elephant purple, a lion green, and then paused. “Daddy?” Molly tried again.
But just then, Brring! Brring!
“Wait a minute, Molly,” Daddy said as he went to answer the phone.
Daddy talked a long time, and Molly colored another page in her book. This time she colored an alligator orange.
Daddy and Molly drove to the store that afternoon. Molly watched the trees and houses whiz past. The sun shining through the window made Molly feel warm. Surely now was a good time to tell Daddy.
“Daddy?” Molly said as they arrived at the store.
“Yes?” Daddy replied, opening Molly’s door.
“Daddy, I—” but Molly stopped talking to watch a beautiful black and yellow butterfly flutter past her.
“That’s a swallowtail butterfly, Molly,” Daddy told her. They held hands as they walked into the store, but Molly kept turning around, trying to see the butterfly again. She forgot to tell Daddy her special secret.
Molly played with her racing cars after dinner. Vroom! Vroom! But her racing cars didn’t go as fast as they usually did. Molly sighed. A whole day had gone by, and she still hadn’t told Daddy her special secret. Molly looked up at Daddy sitting on the couch. “Daddy?”
“Yes, Molly?” Daddy put his newspaper down and sat on the floor with her.
Molly grinned. Finally it was time to tell Daddy her special secret.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Daddy hugged Molly for a long time. “I love you, too, Molly,” he said.
Daddy played racing cars with Molly until bedtime. And now the racing cars went very fast.

A few years ago my back started hurting. I was kind of worried, so I went to see our family chiropractor. He took some X-rays, saw something weird going on, and recommended me to a specialist.
I was right. There was something wrong. The specialist told me I have a condition called ankylosing spondylitis. It’s a form of arthritis where your spinal joints get inflamed and your spine tries to fuse itself together.
My prescription was to exercise and stretch four or five days a week for about 20 to 30 minutes. If I don’t, my back starts to hurt again. Ankylosing spondylitis can also lead to other serious health problems.
Someday I may have to treat my condition with drugs, but for now, I stretch every day. I also go to the gym several times a week. Recently, I went for a checkup. The doctor told me that because I was diligent with stretching, my spine is in a lot better shape than many people my age.
I’m thankful for my body despite its limitations. I try not to focus on my health problems and just use my body the best I can. A few months ago, I found out that the lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands also has ankylosing spondylitis. Rather than complain, he said a lot of the great things in his life have come from struggling.
I try to remember the fact that Jesus Christ suffered every pain for us. He knows the mental and physical pain of any condition, including ankylosing spondylitis. He is the most equipped to help us, and He has helped me be grateful for my body and its abilities.
Samuel M., 21, Utah, USA

After we were baptized in 1992, my family did everything together, including attending Sunday meetings, Church conferences, and other activities. But time passed, things changed, and I eventually found myself alone at church—the rest of my family having become less active. Thereafter, whenever I heard someone in church teach about eternal families, my heart ached and a profound sadness overcame me.
In 1995 I decided to receive my patriarchal blessing to learn more of what the Lord expected of me and to receive strength. My blessing contained the following promise: through fasting, prayer, and family home evening, I would have my family “in the gospel.” I constantly prayed and fasted for my family, but I didn’t follow the counsel to hold family home evening.
“If this can happen to families in my mission,” I wondered, “why not to my own family?”
After my mission I was determined to hold family home evening with my family. At first, all participated grudgingly, and I had trouble finishing my lessons as planned. But I knew the Lord wouldn’t counsel me to do something that wouldn’t be a blessing, so I didn’t give up. Eventually, the promise in my patriarchal blessing was fulfilled.
If I didn’t hold family home evening, I heard about it. Family members all participated with opinions, ideas, and counsel, and they listened attentively to the message. Even though we were older then, when game time came, we had a party!
As a result, members of my family once again began obeying commandments they had ignored, and they became more active in the Church.
I can truly say that my home was transformed into a little bit of heaven, thanks to an inspired program that should be a tradition in every home: family home evening.

During my second college year on December 7, 1941, the United States was attacked at Pearl Harbor. The entire nation was aroused. Patriotism swelled to great heights. Every person was deeply affected. War was declared by Congress.
Many students at Weber State, myself included, elected to join the military service at once. I decided to join the Navy with the object of becoming a naval officer. An entire day was spent in the Naval Recruiting Office filling out forms for consideration. Little did I know that I would soon face one of the most serious character tests of my entire life. It pertained to my resolution to keep the Lord’s commandments, particularly that of being honest.
One of the last questions on the naval physical fitness questionnaire startled me. It simply asked whether I had ever had “hay fever.” I remember staring at this question for a long time. Why would hay fever be of any consequence at sea? How could pollen affect anyone on a ship? Why was I being asked such a question? It was evident that my answer could affect my being accepted or rejected as a candidate for officer consideration.
The simple truth was that I had experienced hay fever all of my life and sneezed very often. It would be so easy to mark no to this question since it would probably never come up again. However, marking no would be dishonest. It was a little thing, and yet a principle was at stake. With reluctance, I marked the space for yes and handed the paper back.
As suspected, the answer to that question became troublesome. The medical officer, upon seeing my answer, looked up and exclaimed, “Don’t you know that naval officers can’t have hay fever? You will have to take a special allergy test.”
When the results of my allergy test came back, the officer studied the form intently. The test showed that I suffered a considerable number of allergies. He then took my application forms, calmly tore them up, and threw them into a waste basket. I was astonished. I stuttered, stammered, and finally asked, “What shall I do now?” The officer calmly replied that the “draft” would take care of me and not to worry. Sick at heart, I went back to school, transferring to the University of Utah for the winter quarter. My sophomore preparation classes were completed while awaiting to be drafted into one of the services. That summer I began my junior year in the school of mechanical engineering. Then an announcement was released from Washington, D.C., indicating that all upper division engineering students were to be deferred from the draft until graduation. My graduation with a Bachelor of Science in mechanical engineering occurred in December of 1943, two years following Pearl Harbor.
The day following my graduation, I again presented myself to the naval procurement office in Salt Lake City and indicated that I had just graduated from the school of mechanical engineering at the University of Utah and showed them my degree. When they learned I was interested in becoming a naval officer, I experienced “red carpet” treatment. The officer in charge told me that there were naval ships in dry dock because of the lack of engineering officers and technically trained personnel. A direct commission as an ensign was offered that day. This would be followed by a two-month indoctrination school.
Before accepting this commission, I told the officer that something had to be made clear. He was surprised. He asked me what was on my mind. I flatly stated, “Sir, I suffer severe hay fever. What do you think of that?” The officer laughed. He said that at one time it was a consideration, but not anymore. He told me to forget it, and to please sign my acceptance of a commission as an ensign. This I did.
The ship to which I was later assigned with four other officers and 50 enlisted men was the USS LSM 558. It was our understanding that this ship was destined for the invasion of Japan. We prepared ourselves for departure, but orders never came. Instead, we were given orders to patrol on the Atlantic Coast from Boston to Florida. We later learned why. Two atomic bombs were dropped on cities in Japan. The war was soon over. I left the Navy in 1946 to pursue my career, first in engineering and then in architecture.

When I was a full-time missionary, I learned the importance of a sincere fast. A family we had been teaching was nearing baptism—all except the oldest daughter. As the oldest child, she was a spiritual leader for the rest of the family. But something was holding her back from joining the Church.
On a regular fast Sunday, my companion and I, along with her family, fasted for her. Then after sacrament meeting, we visited with the family briefly. As my companion was talking with the girl and her mother, I had one of those spiritual surprises that brighten the landscape of our lives. The Spirit made manifest to me what was holding her back from being baptized: She had a boyfriend in her own church who had experienced several spiritual manifestations, and she was concerned that she might be forsaking something very good. Then, through the Spirit, I perceived that the Lord knew her personally, understood her concern, and had great blessings ready to be poured out upon her.
In my excitement, I interrupted my companion and said, “I know what the problem is!” Both the mother and the daughter were startled and then tearful as I explained what the Holy Ghost had just made known to me. Then I bore testimony that I knew greater blessings would come to her than she ever dreamed possible if she would accept the gospel. We had a prayer and left for our next appointment.
Her tears worried me. I thought I might have offended her. But the next evening, when we returned with our zone leaders to interview the family for baptism, she asked, “May I be interviewed, too?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “But tell me what has happened.” She told me that I had been correct and that the Spirit had borne witness to her of the promises I had made to her. She was baptized along with her family. What great blessings had come to all of us as a result of that day of sincere fasting!

A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.

I witnessed firsthand how these blessings—as promised by our dear prophet—changed the life of Brother Joseph Tembo* from the Copperbelt in Zambia. We visited this brother when I was assigned to preside over a district conference a few years ago. Upon entering his home, I noticed in his room a small table on the left with a pile of scriptures. I just marveled as I was informed that he had been inactive for the past seven years and had become somewhat disaffected. As we discussed with him, he said something profound, “I haven’t been going to Church for the past seven years because of some offense. I still know the gospel is true. Reading the Book of Mormon daily has kept me going.” The Book of Mormon had surely comforted, strengthened and consoled him during his greatest time of need. It was therefore easy to help him find his way back to Church again.

This also strengthened my own testimony that scripture study should have a daily set time, not leftover time! And as President Harold B. Lee cautioned, “If we are not reading the scriptures daily, our testimonies are growing thinner.”11

As we seek to increase our faith in Heavenly Father and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and His Atonement, we need to “press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end.”12 “The words of Christ will tell [us] all things what [we] should do.”13 The Book of Mormon is for our profit and learning. It testifies of Jesus Christ and answers the questions of the soul.

Recently I talked to a sister who was in the psychiatric unit of a local hospital. She shared with me her sorrowful journey from complete mental and physical health, a wonderful marriage and family, into mental illness, debilitating health, and the breakup of her family—all of which started with the abuse of prescription painkillers.
Two years prior to our conversation, she hurt her back in a car accident. Her doctor prescribed a medication to relieve the almost unbearable pain. She thought she needed something more, so she forged prescriptions and finally resorted to buying heroin. This led to her arrest and incarceration. Her obsession with drugs caused her marriage to fail. Her husband divorced her and retained custody of the children. She told me that besides helping to dull her pain, the drugs also provided a short-term but heightened sense of euphoria and well-being. But each dosage of drugs lasted only a few hours, and with each use the duration of relief seemed to lessen. She began to take more and more of the drugs and got caught up in the vicious cycle of addiction. Drugs became her life. The night before I talked with her, she tried to commit suicide. She said she could no longer deal with the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain. She felt trapped with no way out—with no hope.

The simultaneous use of over-the-counter remedies and prescription drugs is a more serious problem.10 An unusual case of this kind of drug misuse was recently seen in the outpatient service of a teaching hospital. During the course of taking the drug history, the clinical pharmacist inquired if the patient was taking any over-the-counter drugs. The patient indicated that she was, but when queried as to what she was taking, she could not remember. A similar answer was given when she was questioned with regard to any prescription medication she was taking. Further discussion extracted the promise that she would bring the drugs she was routinely taking to the clinic on her next visit. When she returned, she brought a basket containing 26 over-the-counter remedies and 25 prescription drugs, a total of 51 drugs that she was taking each day and often simultaneously, including seven depressant drugs and two stimulant drugs.

Why do bad things always happen to me?” grumbled Harold as he tried to pull his school backpack out from under him. It was a cold morning, and the road to school was very icy. He was late, and in his hurry, he had fallen just outside the school door and landed on his backpack.
Harold looked inside the pack. “Oh no!” he moaned. “This is worse than I thought.” When he’d fallen, he’d mashed everything in his lunch, including the little box of juice his mother had put in as a treat. It had squirted over everything. Harold pulled out his book report. It was dripping with apple juice.
“Why do bad things always happen to me?” he muttered over and over as he opened the school door and went down the hall to his class, holding the dripping book report with two fingers.
“Good morning, Harold. How are you today?” Mrs. Bennett asked as he walked into the classroom.
“I’m terrible,” he growled as he hung up his coat and sat down.
Two girls nearby giggled. “Harold is always terrible,” Katie said.
“Always,” laughed Anna.
Mrs. Bennett went over and sat down next to Harold. “Why is everything so terrible?”
Without a word, Harold showed her the soggy and sticky book report. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out on the top of his desk and said, “See this? Bad things always happen to me. I can prove it because I have them all written down on this list. Now I need to add what happened on the way to school. I fell on the ice. I smashed my lunch. Juice got all over my book report, and I think I bruised my elbow.”
“Well,” his teacher said, “that is kind of a tough way to start the morning. What else is on your list?”
Harold read down his bad things list. “Yesterday I stubbed my toe. My two big brothers drank all the chocolate milk at dinner before I could get any. I didn’t get a turn on the swings at recess. On Monday I lost my favorite toy, and my pencil broke during the spelling test. Amanda spilled her milk in the lunchroom, and it went all over me.” Harold took a deep breath and was about to go on.
“I see what you mean,” Mrs. Bennett broke in quickly. “I’m wondering, though, just why you keep all of that on a list.”
“Because if I don’t, I might forget something. You see bad things always happen to me.”
Mrs. Bennett looked at Harold and then pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “Do you know what I think?” she asked.
Harold shook his head.
“I think your list isn’t long enough.” Harold looked at his teacher in surprise. He thought his list pretty much covered everything. He had kept it in his pocket and added to it all week.
“I’m really curious to see what your list looks like if you write down absolutely everything that happens to you today. You will need more than that little paper. Here, use this notebook. Start with what happened on the way to school; then add everything that happens to you all day.”
“OK,” Harold said, “but you’ll see that bad things always happen to me.” Mrs. Bennett just smiled, and he started writing. He made sure that he covered all the details about the apple juice, the ruined book report, the mashed sandwich, his bruised elbow—everything.
Math was the first class. The students worked through the problems on the chalkboard while Mrs. Bennett handed back their tests. Harold’s had a big 100% written on the top! She winked at Harold when she gave it to him and said, “Better write this down in the notebook.” Harold got out his list.
Later the students were reading aloud a play, and when they drew names, Harold drew the part of the hero! Mrs. Bennett winked again, and Harold knew that he was supposed to write that down.
As the children put on their coats to go outside for recess, his teacher noticed that he had some new boots with a warm, fuzzy lining and new gloves to match. “New boots, Harold?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said. “Mom got them for me yesterday.”
“Hmmmm,” Mrs. Bennett rubbed her chin. “That sounds to me like something that happened to you.”
“I know,” said Harold. “I’d better write it down.” While he was at it, he noticed that his coat was pretty nice and warm, too. Then he realized that he hadn’t yet written down anything about the hot breakfast his mother had made for him.
As the day went on, Harold’s list grew longer and longer. Right after lunch, he put down all about how terrible it was to eat a mashed lunch and how Robert had laughed about his funny flat sandwich for an hour. But out on the playground, he scored three baskets for his team, and Nick asked him to play after school, and he had to put that on the list too.
During art, his paint water spilled all over. That went into the notebook in big, capital letters. Jenny helped him wipe everything up, though, and Mrs. Bennett winked again, so he knew he was supposed to add “help from a friend” to his list. He was on the third page of the notebook already.
At the end of the day, Harold took the notebook back to his teacher. “Well,” he said, “I think I’ve recorded just about everything.”
“Good,” she said. “What do you think—shall we count up all the bad things now?”
Harold looked at his feet and fiddled with the old crumpled list in his pocket. It was really hard for him to say it, but maybe everything wasn’t so terrible. “Mrs. Bennett,” he said as he looked at the notebook, “I think maybe I saved up all the bad things so long that I forgot to notice the good things.”
Mrs. Bennett smiled.
“This kind of list is a lot more interesting to write than the old one. Do you think I could keep this paper?”
“Harold, you can keep the whole notebook,” Mrs. Bennett said. “I hope you keep adding things until it’s a very long list.”
Harold grinned. “Thanks,” he said. “But, you know, it still makes me mad that my apple juice ended up all over my book report instead of in my lunch.”
“I bet it does,” Mrs. Bennett said, “but at least it helped you see not only that good things happened to you, too, but also that it helps to write things down. Hmmm—I think you’ll have good things happen to you next week when we start a lesson on journals. What do you think?”
“Yes!”

“And now I’d like to end my talk with my testimony,” the speaker in sacrament meeting was saying. Sarah and her younger sister, Beth, were sitting with their family near the back of the chapel. Dad leaned forward on the bench and eyed a clear warning to both of them. They weren’t being bad or noisy, but Dad knew what was coming—the family was sitting right in front of Brother Smith.
The speaker finished, “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Sarah bit her lip and closed her eyes in anticipation. Then she heard it—everyone in the whole city must have heard it—Brother Smith added his “AMEN!”
Sarah tried not to giggle, but when Beth started to, she couldn’t help it. Dad looked disappointed, and Sarah felt bad. She knew that they shouldn’t giggle in church. “It’s Brother Smith’s fault,” she mouthed to her father while she tried to calm Beth down.
Everyone in the ward said “Amen” after a prayer or talk, but everyone else said it quietly, almost to themselves. Brother Smith belted it out as if he were at a football game.
“He is older,” Dad had explained before. “He doesn’t hear very well.” Sarah knew that some people who are hard of hearing often shout. But still, when Brother Smith said “amen,” she was sure even people driving by could hear it.
After church, when the family was riding home, Sarah expected another lecture from her father about reverence. But he didn’t say anything.
Beth broke her silence, “Sorry I laughed again, Daddy.”
Sarah poked Beth’s leg and frowned at her for bringing it up. But Dad just said, “After lunch I have something I want to show you girls.”
When the family had eaten, Dad took the two girls into his study. “This is something that belonged to your great-grandfather,” he said, pulling a fist-size metal object out of a box.
“What is it?” Sarah asked. “It looks like a clamp.”
“It’s a seal.” Dad pulled out a sheet of typing paper from his desk and placed the paper between the seal’s two round plates. Using both hands, he squeezed the handles together, then released them and pulled the paper out. “See the imprint it leaves on the paper?”
The girls looked at the intricate design and fancy writing embossed on the paper. “Cool!” Sarah exclaimed. “May I try it?”
“Sure.” Dad smiled and got out another sheet of paper. “Great-grandfather was a very important man in the town where he lived. He was a leader, and people trusted him. This seal was his very own; there were no others like it.”
Sarah pushed the handles together this time; then both girls ran their fingertips over the texture that was now left on the paper.
“That’s the way Great-Grandpa sent important messages to others,” Dad told them. “He put his seal on the messages, and the people getting them knew without a doubt that the messages were really from him.
You see, if people got married or did things that needed a witness, Great-Grandpa used his seal. People everywhere knew that if his seal was on something, it was true.”
“Wow!” Beth said.
“That’s awesome!” Sarah added.
Dad looked at them. “You mean you wouldn’t laugh at Great-Grandpa’s seal?”
“No way,” Sarah said. “It’s an important thing.”
“Yeah, no way,” Beth agreed.
Dad smiled. “Now, did you know that the word amen is also a seal?”
Sarah had known that something like this was coming. Dad made a lesson out of everything. She waited for him to continue.
“Well, that’s what it is—our own personal seal that we put on ordinances, testimonies, prayers, and talks. It means that we know we have done or said or heard something true. Saying ‘amen’ is our seal that tells everyone that we agree and approve.
“Now,” he said, easing the tension, “who wants to use Great-Grandpa’s seal on some of her things?”
“I do! I do!” both girls squealed happily.
All that week, Sarah put Great-Grandpa’s seal on the first pages of all her books and everything else she could find. She made special note cards for her friends and even put a seal in her journal.
The following Sunday, Sarah’s family got to church a little late. Dad found a half-empty bench near the back of the chapel, and they sat down just as everyone was bowing his head for the prayer.
In the prayer, Sister Carter said, “We thank thee for this beautiful day.” As Sarah listened carefully, she thought of Great-Grandpa’s seal. Would she put her seal on these words? “We are grateful for this chapel to meet in,” Sister Carter was saying now. Could Sarah witness that these words were true? “And please bless the prophet and the missionaries.” Did Sarah approve? Did she agree? Sister Carter ended her prayer, “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Picturing herself stamping Great-Grandpa’s seal on Sister Carter’s prayer, Sarah said “amen” right out loud, just as she heard Brother Smith bellow “AMEN!”
Sarah didn’t laugh. Beth didn’t laugh, either. Dad smiled at them approvingly. Sarah moved closer to him and whispered, “‘Amen’ is Brother Smith’s seal, Dad—his BIG seal.”

I saw that same miracle in the bedroom of a man who had given sufficient faithful service to think that he had done enough to rest.
I knew that he had undergone lengthy and painful treatment for a disease and had been told by the doctors that it was terminal. They offered neither treatment nor hope.
His wife took me to his bedroom in their home. There he was, lying on his back on the top of the carefully made-up bed. He wore a freshly pressed white shirt, a tie, and new shoes.
He saw the look of surprise in my eyes, laughed quietly, and explained, “After you give me a blessing, I want to be ready to respond to the call to take up my bed and go to work.” As it turned out, he was ready for the interview he would soon have with the Master, for whom he had worked so faithfully.
He was an example of the fully converted Latter-day Saints I meet often after they have given a life of dedicated service. They press on.

On a crisp autumn Saturday, I went to spend a day with my grandfather. He lives in a small town, in a small house on Sixth Street.
There are a lot of things I like about Grandfather, especially his twinkly eyes and merry laugh. He has an interesting house, and he tells the best stories. I like to have him all to myself sometimes. I was really happy to spend that day with him all alone.
He had called on the telephone and asked if I could come help him do something special. Mom and Dad said I could. They always let me go to Grandfather’s when he has something special to do. I get to help him with all sorts of things. I like to help out!
On this particular Saturday, my mom dropped me off at his house in the morning. He welcomed me, and we waved good-bye to Mom. Then he told me in a cheerful voice, "Grandson, today you are going to help me build a bridge—one that’s been wanted on both sides of it for a long time. Does that sound OK to you?"
"Oh yes! I like to build things!"
"Good!" he said, and we went into his house.
Well, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became! I imagined myself erecting a great bridge that would span a raging river or a gorge of great depths. Then the thought popped into my mind that there were no rivers around. In fact, there weren’t any gorges or even ravines around. So I asked, "Where are we going to build our bridge, Grandfather?"
"Not very far away."
"But there isn’t any place to put a bridge, is there?"
He just looked at me and said, "You’d be surprised, Grandson!"
Sometimes he says things like that, and I don’t understand what he means. But Grandfather is wise, and I believe him when he tells me things.
"Will we need tools, Grandfather?"
"Indeed we will! I think we should go get them right away. Follow me!"
He led me to a tiny shed behind his house. He took a key out of a pocket in his overalls and unlocked the door. We stepped inside, and it was very dark. When he turned on a single light bulb, the shed seemed sort of yellow and gray and fuzzy combined.
"Now, let’s see." Grandfather began rummaging through the clutter. "Here, Grandson, hold these!" He handed me two pairs of gloves.
Yes, I thought, we will certainly need gloves when we are building our bridge!
"And, of course, we will need these." Grandfather handed me two big metal buckets.
As he handed them to me, I accidentally dropped them. Clang! Clang! Clong! Oh, they made a dreadfully loud noise! I picked them up and tried to be more careful when Grandfather handed me a garden rake.
"What will we need this for?" I asked him.
"Oh, that’s a most important tool!" he exclaimed. He smiled at me and said, "Come, my wondering grandson. Let’s go build our bridge."
"But we don’t have any wood!"
"We won’t need any," he said.
"We don’t have a hammer and nails, either."
"We’ll not be needing any of those things. Come, young man. Let’s go build that bridge."
Grandfather walked out of the shed and into the cool, clean morning air. I followed him, still wondering how on earth we were going to build a bridge without supplies.
Soon I discovered that we were in the neighbor’s yard. I remembered the yard well, and I did not want to be there one bit! It was old Mr. Jenkins’s yard. I thought back to last year at Thanksgiving time. My whole family was at Grandfather’s, and after the meal, we children played behind the house.
During an exciting game of hide-and-seek, some of us had gone into Mr. Jenkins’s yard to hide. His house looked empty and lonesome, and we were sure that nobody was home. But he came out, waving his cane in the air and shouting for us to leave! He even called me a scalawag!
"Grandfather," I asked now, "why are we in this yard?"
"Why, this is where we will build our bridge!" When I looked at him with questioning eyes, he said, "Do you trust me, Grandson?"
"Yes," I answered.
"And if I ask you to do something, will you do it?"
"I will, Grandfather."
"Good!" He handed me a pair of gloves and asked me to go down to Mr. Jenkins’s big garden. "Do you see those pumpkins?"
Of course I saw them! There were lots of bright orange pumpkins scattered all over the ground, surrounded by their withered vines from the last frost.
"I would like you to pick them and put them in a pile over by the house. Be very careful, and don’t carry them by the stems!"
"OK, Grandfather." I went to the task. I had never seen so many pumpkins! Some of them were skinny and tall. Others were round and fat. They were all heavy! I worked very hard for a long time. After I got that done, Grandfather asked me to rake the fallen leaves in the yard.
I told him I would, but when I looked around, I was stunned! There must have been thousands of leaves surrounding me! The huge cottonwood trees in the backyard had certainly had a lot of leaves that year! It took me two hours to rake them. All the while, I kept thinking, Maybe when I’m done with this, we will build a bridge.
Grandfather was busy too. He had brought a shovel, and he dug up all the potatoes in the garden, put them into the buckets, and carried them to the porch. When he noticed that one of the stairs leading to the porch was sagging, he set to fixing it. Then he helped me bag the leaves.
Well, when we were finished with Mr. Jenkins’s yard and garden, it looked great! It felt nice to look at it and see what a good job we had done. I knew Mr. Jenkins saw what a good job we had done, too, because once I saw him peeking through a window—and he wasn’t scowling!
By this time, I felt hungry. I was glad when Grandfather said, "How would you like it if we went home now and made some of my famous potato soup?"
"Hurrah! I love your potato soup!"
We went into the house and made a great big batch of it. And as we were cooking it, I thought that maybe after lunch we would start building that bridge.
The soup was delicious, and we had a fun time eating and talking. Grandfather told me interesting stories that made me laugh. When we were all done, there was a lot of soup left. Grandfather put it in a big bowl and said, "Now, Grandson, I want you to take this over to Mr. Jenkins."
"What?" I exclaimed. "I can’t do that! He’s mean, and he doesn’t like me."
Grandfather just looked me in the eyes and said, "Please."
So I got all my courage together and walked over to Mr. Jenkins’s front door with a bowl of warm soup in my hands. I rang the doorbell and waited a long time. Finally he came to the door. He had a broken leg and was on crutches!
"Hello, young man," he said. He didn’t look mean at all—in fact, he even smiled at me!
"My grandfather asked me to bring this over to you."
"I thank you for it. Tell me, could you carry it just a wee bit farther and put it on my table?"
"Sure." As I walked through the house, I noticed that it was very messy. I suspected that he couldn’t get around well enough to take care of it. I put the soup on the table and told him I had to go. As I was leaving, I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
"Young man, you don’t know what you and your grandfather did today means to me! Thank you, from the bottom of a cranky old man’s heart!"
I smiled big and said, "You’re welcome!" Then I went back to Grandfather’s house. When I told him what had happened, he seemed very pleased. Then I asked him if we could build our bridge.
"Why, Grandson, we have already built it!"
"We have? Really?"
"Yes indeed! We built a very wonderful bridge today: the bridge of friendship, my boy. Mr. Jenkins may be a cranky old fellow sometimes, but as you could see, he needed some help. And he was glad to get it. All it took to warm his old heart was just being a good neighbor and friend. Our helping him showed him that we were his friends. Building bridges between people and making friends is one of the strongest bridges we could ever build!"
Well, it took me a minute to understand what Grandfather had said. But once I realized that we actually had built a bridge, I couldn’t help but smile. Then I remembered how Mr. Jenkins’s house was so messy, and it gave me a great idea. "Grandfather? Do you think we could add a little bit to that bridge today?"
Grandfather smiled, winked at me, and said, "Yes, Grandson, I believe we could!"

In general conference those long years ago, as I related this account, I mentioned that I had lost track of Mrs. Patton but that I wanted to once more answer her question “Will Arthur live again?”
And now, my brothers and sisters, I share with you the rest of this account. I delivered my message on April 6, 1969. Again, I had little or no hope that Mrs. Patton would actually hear the talk. I had no reason to think she would listen to general conference. As I have mentioned, she was not a member of the Church. And then I learned that something akin to a miracle had taken place. Having no idea whatsoever who would be speaking at conference or what subjects they might speak about, Latter-day Saint neighbors of Mrs. Terese Patton in California, where she had moved, invited her to their home to listen to a session of conference with them. She accepted their invitation and thus was listening to the very session where I directed my remarks to her personally.
During the first week of May 1969, to my astonishment and joy, I received a letter postmarked Pomona, California, and dated April 29, 1969. It was from Mrs. Terese Patton. I share with you a part of that letter:
“Dear Tommy,
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Tommy, as I always think of you that way. I don’t know how to thank you for the comforting talk you gave.
“Arthur was 15 years old when he enlisted in the navy. He was killed one month before his 19th birthday on July 5, 1944.
“It was wonderful of you to think of us. I don’t know how to thank you for your comforting words, both when Arthur died and again in your talk. I have had many questions over the years, and you have answered them. I am now at peace concerning Arthur. … God bless and keep you always.
“Love,
“Terese Patton”15
My brothers and sisters, I do not believe it was a coincidence that I was impressed to give that particular message at the April 1969 general conference. Nor do I believe it was a coincidence that Mrs. Terese Patton was invited by neighbors to join them in their home for that particular session of conference. I am certain our Heavenly Father was mindful of her needs and wanted her to hear the comforting truths of the gospel.

When I was a student at the University of Vienna in Austria, two missionaries came to my door, saying, “We have a message for you from God.” I invited them in, wondering why I did so because I didn’t have any interest in religion. Deeply affected by the Hungarian Revolution of 1956—which sent thousands of refugees streaming into Austria—I had been seeking to know the meaning of life. But I didn’t expect to find the answer in any church.
The message of these missionaries was the message of the Restoration. I think I loved the Prophet Joseph Smith from the first moment I heard about him. I was especially touched by the circumstances of his Martyrdom. Later, as I spent time reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I received through the power of the Holy Ghost a joyful, peaceful assurance that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith was the Prophet of the Restoration, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s restored Church on the earth, led by living prophets who prepare the world for His Second Coming.

So do the Willeys lug their violins, violas, and basses from door to door playing inspirational music for people? Not exactly. If you’ve ever seen a Church music broadcast or attended one on Temple Square, you’ve probably seen how Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina share the gospel through music. They are some of the youngest members of the Orchestra at Temple Square.
Being so young compared to the other members of the orchestra doesn’t bother these teens a bit. They actually love it. Elizabeth says, “Even though there are only a few members under 20 in the orchestra, I feel like I fit in. I think it’s great because there isn’t any goofing off. Everyone had to work so hard to get here.”
How did they get to be in such a prestigious orchestra at such a young age? “Lots and lots of practice,” Anthony says.
To be in the Orchestra at Temple Square you have to be one of the top musicians in the Church, able to play whatever difficult piece might be put in front of you. And it’s a huge time commitment.
Kristina says, “Being a part of the Orchestra at Temple Square is my favorite thing I’ve ever done, but it’s been a sacrifice. It’s hard to find time for homework and friends because we have to practice every day and rehearse several times a week.”
But Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina all say the hard work is worth it.
“It’s neat to be able to see the audience’s reaction when we perform,” Elizabeth says. “The Spirit is always there. It makes me feel like all my hard work has paid off.”
The teens’ mom and dad go to their concerts and sit up in the balcony where they can see all their children. Their mother, Denise, says, “When the music gets going, the Spirit sweeps over me and over the whole audience.”
The beautiful music the orchestra plays on Temple Square helps many people feel the Spirit. After the concerts are over, members of the audience can learn more about the Church from the full-time and Church service missionaries standing at the doors.
Anthony loves the missionary opportunities that being a member of the Orchestra at Temple Square has given him. “Being a member of the orchestra has made me want to be a better person,” he says, “and it has prepared me to be a better full-time missionary.”

Many years ago I took our only son on his first camping-fishing trip. He was just a boy. The canyon was steep, and the descent was difficult. But the fishing was good. Every time I hooked a fish, I would give the pole to the eager boy, and with shouts of joy he would reel in a beautiful trout. In the shadows and coolness of the late afternoon, we began our climb back up to the rim high above us. He scrambled rapidly up the mountain ahead of me with a challenging, “Come on, Dad. I’ll bet I can beat you to the top.” The challenge was heard but wisely ignored. His small frame seemed literally to fly over, under, and around every obstacle, and when every step that I took seemed ridiculously like my last, he had reached the top and stood cheering me on. After supper we knelt in prayer. His small voice rose sweetly heavenward in benediction to our day. Then we climbed into our large double sleeping bag, and after a bit of pushing and pulling I felt his little body snuggle and settle tightly against mine for warmth and security against the night. As I looked at my son beside me, suddenly I felt a surge of love pass through my body with such force that it pushed tears to my eyes. And, at that precise moment, he put his little arms around me and said, “Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, my son, I am awake.”
“Dad, I love you a million, trillion times!”
And immediately he was asleep. But I was awake far into the night, expressing my great thanks for such wonderful blessings clothed with a little boy’s body.
Now my son is a man with a son of his own. Once in a while the three of us go fishing. I look at my little redheaded grandson beside his father, and I see in my mind’s eye the image of that wonderful moment long ago. The question so innocently asked, “Dad, are you awake?” still rings in my heart.

A recently returned missionary, Meg, was walking toward the doors of the Kona Hawaii Temple when she noticed a young woman sitting alone on a bench outside. Meg felt that she should speak to the young woman, but she wasn’t sure what to say. So she asked about the meaning of a tattoo on the young woman’s ankle. That began a conversation that allowed the young woman, Lani, to share her story.
Lani told Meg about her struggle to return to full participation in the Church, the nice members who were helping her, and her hope to someday be sealed to her baby daughter.
Meg invited Lani to come sit in the temple waiting room with her. They would not be able to go further into the temple yet, but they would be able to cross the threshold. Lani agreed, and they went together through the main doors. A temple worker showed them to a bench beneath a painting of the Savior.
As they sat together, Lani whispered, “I really wanted to come into the temple today, but I was nervous.” Because Meg followed the Spirit, she helped answer Lani’s silent prayer.

There is an old Welsh story from the 13th century about a prince who returned home to find his dog with blood dripping down its face. The man rushed inside and, to his horror, saw that his baby boy was missing and his cradle overturned. In anger the prince pulled out his sword and killed his dog. Shortly thereafter, he heard the cry of his son—the babe was alive! By the infant’s side lay a dead wolf. The dog had, in reality, defended the prince’s baby from a murderous wolf.

For much of my life I have suffered from depression and OCD, so feeling the Spirit was a rare occurrence for me. So in seminary, church, and general conference, when a certain phrase stood out or I had a constant thought or feeling to do something, I wrote it down. It wasn’t until years later when I reread these entries that I realized God was talking to me when I was having a difficult time hearing Him.

When we approach general conference ready to pay attention and learn from the Spirit, we are showing God we want to hear Him, and we will receive guidance and peace for ourselves.