Gospel Story Finder

Soon after I was baptized in 1974, I attended my first general conference in Salt Lake City with my brother, John. I was surprised when Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had met my aunt in New York City three weeks before that conference, referred to John and me during his Sunday morning talk.
Quoting my aunt, Elder Packer said: “Two of my nephews have joined your Church. I can hardly believe the change that it’s made in their lives.”
Because of that profound change (see Alma 5:14), a fire burned inside me that I wanted to share. Soon, I found myself in Idaho as a full-time missionary. Halfway through my mission, my father, who was my greatest hero and best friend, passed away. My mother called my mission president and asked that I come home to give a eulogy. When my mission president left the decision up to me whether to leave, I told him I wanted to pray and fast for 24 hours before deciding.
That night I had a dream. My father appeared to me. In the midst of sublime and meaningful discussions with him, he told me, “Son, stay on your mission.”
I followed Dad’s counsel and stayed.
Because of the profound change that followed his conversion, “a fire burned inside” Randy that he wanted to share as a full-time missionary.
Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.
On February 17, 2018, two weeks before the Washington D.C. Temple closed for renovation, I was sealed to my father and mother, 42 years after they had passed through the veil into eternity. My oldest son, Randall, acted as proxy for my father, and Lisa acted as proxy for my mother. I felt that my parents, who had been sealed to each other earlier, were both there in spirit.
In the temple we find cords that bind us forever to our loved ones. I am certain of that.
When I was young, I didn’t want to get married or have children. But today my wife, children, and grandchildren are my greatest treasures. The Church is a miracle, and my life in the Church has been miraculous. With Joseph Smith, I say, “If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Fifty years ago, I was a construction worker on the Washington D.C. Temple. I was convinced that my life had no happy future. Today I am an ordinance worker in that same temple, having accepted the Lord’s invitation to follow Him, receive His healing, embrace His ordinances, and strive to become like Him.
Randy and his wife, Lisa, serve in the Washington D.C. Temple, which he helped build 50 years ago.
Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
The restored Church is not a theory, a philosophy, or merely a community or culture. It is the true Church of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I thought I would find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I didn’t. I found it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and in the house of the Lord, “the crowning jewel of the Restoration.”

During my high school years, I played football and had a good friend named Ryan. I frequently offered him rides home from practice. Early one morning in February of 2003, my senior year, I was at school getting help from my math teacher. A girl walked in the door and announced the death of my friend Ryan. I was astonished and almost didn’t believe the words I had just heard. A good friend of mine, whom I had just talked to a week before, was now dead.
I made the decision to miss school the next week and attend the funeral services. Upon arriving, I noticed that the building was very beautiful and bore the logo of the church to which it belonged—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The moment I walked in the door, I felt something different: a sense of peace, joy, and happiness—feelings that are not typically experienced at a funeral. As the services progressed, I noticed a new vocabulary, one that I had never before heard. The words gospel and Atonement entered into my mind for the first time. It was something new and unheard-of but, oddly enough, familiar. I listened attentively as Ryan’s mom spoke, and tears came to my eyes. Something was telling me that this “plan of salvation,” which she was speaking about, was true. I felt that the people in this chapel had something in their lives that I did not, and for some reason, I felt a desire to get it.
Now, I was not completely oblivious to Mormons. I grew up in Mesa, Arizona, where members of the Church come in great abundance. I knew two things for sure: first, many of my friends were members of the Church, and second, Church members believed in something called the Book of Mormon. I had a newfound desire to get my hands on this book and to find out what this religion was all about.
In March of 2003, one of my good friends, Bret, invited me to help with his Eagle Scout project. After school the next day we drove in his truck with another friend of ours, Camden, to where the project would be. Inspired by the Spirit, Bret directed Camden to a Book of Mormon situated in a holder in the passenger-side door. He told him to open to a verse he had recently read in the Book of Alma. My interest was sparked, and for the first time, I saw the book I wanted so very badly. However, I was too scared to say anything right then. Upon returning that evening, I worked up the confidence to ask Bret for the book. He happily gave it to me and told me to read it. That night I read nine chapters. From the moment I picked up the book, I fell in love with its message.
The next evening, I was sitting in Bret’s living room with his family and two young men dressed in dark suits, both of whom were named “Elder.” I learned these were missionaries for Bret’s church. We watched Finding Faith in Christ. I will admit that I cried during the movie and loved every bit of the lesson. I decided to continue investigating and to come to church. I eventually finished the lessons and accepted everything the elders taught me about being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ.
One night as I was kneeling in prayer after reading a portion of the Book of Mormon, I specifically asked if what I was learning was true. Overwhelming feelings of peace and joy came into my heart. I was feeling the Spirit, and it was answering my prayers. After that time, I knew without a doubt that the Book of Mormon was true. I felt it in my heart and had the knowledge given to me in my mind.
With this new knowledge, I knew what my next step would be. I was baptized on May 3, 2003. The following day, I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I will always remember my baptism, the Spirit I felt, and the covenants I made with my Heavenly Father.
My first year as a member of the Church was a long and difficult one, but also full of rewards. Being the only member in your family isn’t the easiest thing, and I also received much persecution from old friends. In May of 2004, I received the Melchizedek Priesthood and a call to serve in the Virginia Richmond Mission, speaking Spanish. I left my nonmember family in July of 2004, not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into or just what it was that I was leaving behind.
During the beginning months of my mission, I heard many things from many friends about the progress of my parents in the Church. They had been attending church off and on and had allowed the missionaries to come by every so often. I was always excited to hear news. Then one Saturday morning my mission president told me he had just spoken with my stake president about my parents. My parents had decided to join the Church. The gospel had now changed their lives for the better, just as it had mine only two years before.
I am so grateful for my Savior Jesus Christ and for the opportunity I had to serve Him as a missionary. I now understand more fully the plan of salvation. I know that this is the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ. Upon returning from my mission in July of 2006 I was overjoyed to enter the Mesa temple with my parents, where we were sealed as a family for time and all eternity. It’s a day I could hardly have imagined just a few years earlier.

I had a fun experience not so long ago with our youngest daughter. We were picking up leaves in our backyard and I noticed she was only using one hand to do so. Needless to say, I was picking up most of the leaves. Upon closer inspection, I could see her phone was clasped tightly in her hand. I suggested the job would go far more quickly if she put away her phone and picked the leaves up with both hands. But even more quickly, she explained that that wasn’t possible because she was in the middle of a text conversation with her friend.

With my patience now a tad thinner, I responded her friend could wait a few minutes and to put the phone away. She refused. Our conversation then went something like this “Phoebe, put the phone away.” “No Dad.” “Phoebe, put the phone away, right now.” “Aww Dad.” “Phoebe, I am going to count to three, if you don’t put the phone away by the time I’m done, you are going to lose it for the next month.” She barely put it away in time.

This experience reminds me of movies when the police officer tells the bad guy to “put the gun down” or “move away from the gun.” Needless to say, with my daughter using both hands and her full attention, the job was soon finished and there was still time to text her friend.

After they reached Clay County, Missouri, news arrived that a mob of nearly four hundred men were preparing to destroy them. When Joseph heard the news, he knelt beneath the clear blue summer sky and prayed for divine protection.

Not far off, gunfire sounded. The men of Zion’s Camp wanted to fight, but Joseph counseled them to wait and see what God would do.

Suddenly a small black cloud appeared in the west. It moved eastward, growing bigger as it moved, until it filled the heavens with darkness. The first ferryboat of mobbers had crossed the Missouri River south of Zion’s Camp and was returning for another load, when a violent burst of wind hit the boat. Rain poured and the wind soared so hard that the members of Zion’s Camp ran from their tents and found shelter in an old Baptist meetinghouse nearby. Safely inside, Joseph told them that God was in that storm.

The horizon filled with the snaking of lightning bolts—not one after another, but atop and beside each other so that the sky was continually lit, and the thunder roared without stopping. Large hailstones broke branches from trees and destroyed crops. Torrents of rain soaked the mobbers’ ammunition and made it useless. The sights and sounds of the storm frightened the mobbers’ horses away, leaving the mobbers to find their way home, wet, horseless, and frightened.

The next morning, Fishing River, which had been only ankle deep, was more than forty feet (12.2 m) deep. One of the mobbers told Joseph Smith that he knew that God was protecting the Mormons.

I had my own experience seeking and waiting on the Lord. As a boy I loved baseball and dreamed of becoming a professional ball player. I’m sure I didn’t have major league talent, but I had the desire and the love for it. Baseball had surely captured my heart and soul. Then, when I was about 11 or 12, my father took me to the Sacred Grove. Through a simple but meaningful experience there, I began to sense that Heavenly Father had other things for me to do. We both had prayers. As time went on, divinely arranged opportunities helped me recognize that I was not meant to be a professional athlete. His plan for me was to put me on a course that led me to my calling to be an Apostle—and, I might add, led me to my sweetheart. I would not be here without her and have the opportunity to be with you this morning.

One of the hardest things for many of you is modesty. How can we apply the spiritual power of our baptism to the principle of modesty? We hope one of the things that makes you different from the world is the way you dress. Marcie Matthews, a Laurel from Chicago, Illinois, shares her story:
“1998 was a year that I was able to see the results of many Young Women lessons, talks, and advice come into play. I am an average Mormon girl. Being able to keep my life this steady and strong has not been easy. I make goals all the time to help strengthen my testimony and my standards.
“Recently we had a Mutual activity on the importance of modesty. Every lesson before I felt like I was a modest dresser, but I knew there was still something I could change—my shorts and the length of my skirts. It was the one weakness that I knew I had but had placed far behind in my head. Everyone wore short shorts, Daisy Dukes, and miniskirts, and I had bought mine with my own money. Then I heard the lesson on modesty. I went home wanting to go straight to my closet and throw away everything that was not modest so it wouldn’t be there to tempt me. After, I told my parents. I guess I was looking for them to tell me that there was no problem in the way I dressed and then let me go.
“Later that night my dad told me he was proud of me and that he would like to buy me a couple of knee-length dresses for church. The next step was to go through all my clothes and give away everything. It was hard for me to part with my favorite skirts and the shorts that I loved so much, but I did. You will never see me in short shorts or short skirts again.
“I have never felt better about myself. I love being able to walk into the temple and church and feel like I am a child of God and am representing Him … by the clothes that I wear.
“I challenge every young woman to take this step. It will help you find out who you are and what you stand for. When we have to give up something that is a part of us, the blessings will pour in more than you can imagine” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

In the 1980s President Faust worked closely with President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, then president of Brigham Young University, to turn their vision of BYU’s Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies into reality. President Faust and President Hunter waded through intense negotiations and prolonged opposition in leasing land and overseeing construction of the center.
One eyewitness to the process said, “Elder Faust was truly a man of peace, always looking for ways to calm our often agitated Jewish friends who sought an end to our presence in Jerusalem, or to calm the troubled waters among the Latter-day Saints in Jerusalem who were sometimes offended by the opposition.”

Ross Anslow said glowingly to his wife, “Ann, our three sons will make fine farmers. I’ll buy more land for Sam and Joey. And when Bob is old enough, he’ll have his share too.”
Sam and Bob smiled happily, but Joey said quickly, “No thanks, Dad, none for me. I’m going to be an ice skater.”
Bob snickered. “A skater!” he hooted. “You don’t even have a pair of skates!”
Sam laughed too. “What’s wrong with you, Joey? Why would you want to spend your time twirling around on the ice like a top, when Dad’ll buy you land to work?”
Joey answered his brother, “I don’t want land to work. I want to skate on the ice in a fancy costume and have crowds cheering for me.”
“Just because you went with your school to see an ice show,” his dad said irritably, “doesn’t mean that you’re going to make a career of ice-skating. You’ll get over it.”
Joey’s mom wasn’t so sure their son would get over it.
“Joey is different,” she cautioned her husband later that evening when the boys had gone to bed. “It could be that farming isn’t for him.”
“Certainly he’ll be a farmer,” Joey’s dad continued stubbornly, “after he gets this silly notion out of his head. I’ll let him grow a calf for the boy’s club. Then maybe he’ll show more interest in farming.”
That night Joey dreamed that the sun was hidden by a heavy mist and that he was running through it. Always ahead of him, just out of reach, moved a pair of glistening silver skates.
Joey thought about his odd dream all the next day. Will it always be like this for me? he wondered. Will I never get a chance to wear those silver skates?
When his dad told him he could have Nellie’s calf, Joey was pleased. He supposed it would be interesting to watch it grow, but he didn’t dance for joy like his brothers would have.
Joey began to daydream about the skates gleaming in the fog—leaping, twisting, bounding along just out of reach. He next imagined that he was clad in a sparkling costume and white boots with shimmering silver blades attached to them. Joey signed. Maybe it was best to forget his dream.
One cold winter morning Joey’s mother asked him to take a loaf of freshly baked bread to some new neighbors. To his delight Joey found that they had a girl his own age. She had sparkling brown eyes and dark hair. Her name was Sabrina.
Sabrina’s parents were pleased to find that they had friendly neighbors, and asked Joey to stay for lunch. When they were through, Joey and Sabrina talked about sports, and Joey found himself telling her about his longing to become a professional ice skater someday. Then with a rueful smile he admitted, “I don’t own any skates. I’ve never even had any on. But I always dream about skating.”
Sabrina’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve something to show you,” she said, disappearing into another room. When she returned, Sabrina was holding up a pair of shining silver skates exactly like those in Joey’s dream!
“They’re my dad’s,” Sabrina explained. “He used to be a professional skater. He’s Don Carber—have you ever heard of him?”
Joey was excited. “Wow! He’s your dad? I’ve read about him!”
Sabrina nodded. “Would you like to see his scrap-books?”
“Would I!” was all Joey could manage to reply.
While they were going through the books, Joey imagined that he was Don Carber—leaping, spinning, and waving to the enthusiastic crowds.
Before Joey left, he told Sabrina, “I’m going to wear silver skates, too, someday. I want to be like your dad was—a star on ice.”
Sabrina smiled. “I know you’ll be a star, Joey, and I’ll help you.”
That night Joey summoned up the courage to ask his dad for a pair of skates.
Joey’s dad was unbending. “You’ll have to forget this nonsense, Joey,” he said. “No son of mine is going to waste his life scooting about on the ice.”
Joey persisted. “If I keep up with my chores and schoolwork, then earn the money for skates, may I sweep the snow off the pond out in the pasture and try to skate on it?”
His dad was going to say no at first, but then he thought that Joey might come to his senses and forget about ice-skating after a few falls on the ice. So he replied, “Go ahead, Son, but remember—chores and schoolwork first.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Don’t expect me to pay for lessons either; you do this on your own.”
The boy nodded. He decided not to mention that he was being encouraged by Sabrina and her father.
Joey worried about a job to earn the money for skates. If it had been summer, he’d have had longer evenings. But now the days were so short that by the time he finished his chores, he didn’t have time for a lengthy job. Joey asked his neighbors about a job, but any available work either took too long or was too heavy for him.
Then Joey remembered that he hadn’t asked Bill Jones about a job.
Luckily for Joey, Mr. Jones said that he could use some help during the evenings. And when Joey had earned enough money, Mr. Carber offered to help him choose the right skates to learn on.
His brothers teased Joey when they saw him with his skates. “We’ll likely be watching you on TV tomorrow,” they joked.
Joey smiled and answered good-naturedly, “Not tomorrow, but maybe someday.”
Dad remarked, “I could understand getting excited about playing hockey or skiing—but figure skating!”
Mom smiled and said, “They’re lovely skates, Joey.”
At first Joey was awkward, and he fell a lot. But whenever he became discouraged, Sabrina was usually there, skating with him and encouraging him.
Mr. Carber sometimes came to watch and to coach. He was amazed at how quickly Joey learned. Figure-skating movements seemed to come to the boy naturally.
With a broom and shovel kept close by to clear the ice of snow, Joey spent every available moment on the pond. Early mornings and late afternoons he practiced the motions suggested by Mr. Carber. Joey’s family took neither the time nor the interest to watch him.
Once, when she saw him hurrying out of the house with his skates slung over his back. Mom called to him, “Don’t try to learn everything in one season. You have years ahead of you.”
Joey answered, “No, Mom, I haven’t. I was late starting.”
His mom sighed. With Dad against the boy’s skating, and his brothers always teasing, things weren’t easy for Joey.
One Saturday afternoon Joey was busy sweeping the pond when he saw the tall figure of Don Carber striding between the snow-laden cedars. Mr. Carber took the broom from Joey and said, “You won’t be needing this today. You’re going to have a chance to try some better ice. I have business in town, so if it’s all right with your folks, I’ll drop you and Sabrina off at the rink for the afternoon.”
Joey felt so happy he nearly shouted for joy as he ran home. Rink ice for the first time!
When Mr. Carber finished his business, he went back to the rink to watch the children going through the movements he had taught them on the pond. He thought Sabrina was good, but Joey had a special talent. If only his parents could see him skating …
The remainder of the winter Don Carber took Joey and Sabrina to the rink often. Sometimes he skated with them, and Joey eagerly copied his movements.
In the spring a notice was posted in town announcing that an amateur skating contest would be held.
Before the contest Don Carber went to the Anslow farm to talk with Joey’s parents. He invited them to come and watch the competition.
Joey’s dad sputtered, “Really couldn’t. Chores, you know. Lambing time. Then there’s—”
His wife interrupted. “We’ll be there, Mr. Carber,” she stated firmly.
“Good!” Don Carber said happily. “And let’s surprise him.”
But it was Joey’s family who were surprised. When Sam and Bob saw their brother swoop down the ice, they were truly astonished.
Even before Joey won a prize, everyone at the rink knew that his sharp routine was the best one seen during the competition.
As the crowd cheered, Ross Anslow smiled proudly at his son.

When he was introduced to the Church, eighteen-year-old Lindo Casinillo couldn’t speak or understand much English. But since the Book of Mormon wasn’t available in Cebuano, he read it in English. “I kept reading it, even though I couldn’t understand it,” he says. “I read until I could understand it.” Now, only a few years later, he has read it seven times, from cover to cover. His English is fluent.

My schoolteacher has a special shelf where she keeps books that she doesn’t want anyone to take home. I saw a book there that I wanted to take home and read that night. I knew I could finish it and bring it back the next day before she missed it.
I read the book that night and put it on my dresser. Later, my sister spilled a glass of water on the book and didn’t tell me. By the time I found out, my teacher’s book was wet and puffy. I was so scared that I started to cry! I was afraid my teacher would be really mad at me. I prayed that she wouldn’t be mad and that she would still trust me. I decided I should pay for the book, and my sister agreed to help pay, too. We put our money in an envelope.
The next morning I wished that I didn’t have to go to school. All morning I practiced in my head how I would apologize to my teacher. Finally I took the book and money to her and explained what had happened. She didn’t get mad at me, and she even gave back the money.
I know that Heavenly Father forgives us and loves us, but it would have been better if I had chosen the right in the first place. I learned a good lesson, but I’m glad that it’s over. Now I am trying to choose the right every day, even when it’s hard.

I grew up in a large family, and I always believed that motherhood would be my greatest contribution to building the Lord’s kingdom. However, my husband and I recently learned that our chances of adding children to our family in this life are small. Our infertility journey has been excruciatingly painful, but the uncertainty of treatments and the emotional load of making difficult decisions have been especially soul crushing. At times I have wondered, What will my influence and role be if I can’t be a mother in the way I had planned?
During this journey, I’ve been grateful for other faithful women in my life whose experiences have also turned out differently than they had planned. And through their examples, Heavenly Father’s message to me has been this: “Don’t wait. Don’t second-guess if you could or should have done more or chosen differently. Be where you are now. Take opportunities to love and serve those around you.”

Nana Ninsin’s advocacy extends to education and menstrual health. She has introduced clubs like Women in Law and Development Africa in local schools, helping reduce dropout rates and teenage pregnancies. “Last year, I received an award from the Director of Education,” she shares proudly. “Now we don’t have pregnant girls in class.” But challenges remain. “My girls use banana stalks as sanitary pads,” she says. “Disabled girls can’t manage menstruation in schools without proper toilets.” She’s calling for support for sanitary pads, school supplies, and infrastructure improvements.

Elva Jean Grauel of Burtonsville, Maryland, has spent a lot of time on the bench—the organ bench of her ward chapel, that is.
Following her early-morning seminary class every day, Elva had a 40-minute wait for her school bus. She put the time to good use by practicing the organ. Her efforts were rewarded when she won first place on both the local and regional levels in the classical keyboard category in a National Association of Christian Schools competition.
Elva serves as president of her Mia Maid class and as assistant organist in the Colesville Ward, Seneca Maryland Stake.

“Our Area Presidency has challenged us to read the Book of Mormon before stake conference. Will you try?” my dad asked me. “I’ll try,” I said reluctantly. I was reluctant because I had recently been in a bicycle accident, where I had received a fairly serious concussion. I remember the exact date of my accident—July 27, 1993—because it was my younger brother Brent’s 12th birthday.
The morning of Brent’s birthday, I realized I still did not have a present for him, so I decided to ride my bicycle to a store to find something. The store was about a mile away, and getting there required that I ride along a busy state highway. Thinking I would be safer, I rode on a seldom-used sidewalk that runs by some condominiums not far from my home. Toward the bottom of the hill, the sidewalk becomes uneven and is covered with sand, dirt, and plants. The sidewalk was not easily seen from either the highway or the condos. I headed down the hill, picking up speed as I went. But my trip didn’t take me where I had planned to go. I ended up in the hospital instead.
To this day, I have no memory of what happened. All I know is that I was in pain. I had more than 40 stitches over one eye and on my chin, and I had bandages over other cuts and scrapes. I later learned that two teenage boys had found me. They had contacted a neighbor, who had called my mom and the paramedics.
Five days later, I was still delirious. While I was in the hospital and at home, many loving people in our ward visited me and brought me gifts—although I can’t remember most of it.
Later, my parents had a speech pathologist test me. The tests showed moderate to severe impairment of my ability to retrieve general information, organize thoughts, and speak intelligently. My “mental age” had dropped. Although I was nearly 15 years old, I was performing at the level of a 12-year-old. One of the most frustrating problems was that I couldn’t read. I could see the words, but my mind couldn’t process them. It was almost as if I had forgotten how to read. So my dad’s challenge to read the Book of Mormon within a two-month period would be an immense difficulty.
That night, I knelt by my bed to pray to Heavenly Father. During my prayer, I felt strongly that if Heavenly Father wanted me to read the Book of Mormon, he would help me. After the prayer, I got up, sat in bed, and opened the Book of Mormon to the first page. I slowly looked at the words in front of me and began, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. …” I was reading! I could actually understand the words! Part of me was totally amazed and excited. Yet part of me wasn’t surprised at all. Somehow I had a complete assurance that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon if it were the Lord’s will.
After only one month, I finished that great book of scripture. The Lord and the Book of Mormon had taught me how to read again. More important, my faith in Heavenly Father increased, as did my testimony of prayer and the scriptures.
I’m grateful that my dad challenged me to read the Book of Mormon. Because of that challenge, I was able to understand that Heavenly Father can bless us in our trials. I’m also grateful for miracles—not only for the miraculous coming forth of the Book of Mormon, or for the miraculous Restoration of the gospel, but for miracles that continue to happen today to people like me.

Today is the first Sunday of April 1993. Go back with me an even century to this same Temple Square. No, make it an even 101 years. It is April conference of 1892. These grounds are crowded with people. The multitude is the largest ever assembled in this area of the West. There are thousands and thousands of them. All cannot get on the grounds, so large is the number. They are on surrounding streets. Some have climbed telephone poles; others, trees. The occasion is the placing of the capstone of the temple, the great round granite sphere which crowns the highest steeple on the east end. It is a day of celebration. Atop the ball is a bronze figure gilded with gold. The figure represents Moroni—prophet, writer, and compiler of the Book of Mormon. The figure represents the angel spoken of by John the Revelator when he declared with prophetic vision:
“And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people,
“Saying with a loud voice, Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come: and worship him that made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters” (Rev. 14:6–7).
In the presence of that multitude, President Wilford Woodruff touched a switch. The capstone with the angel settled in place. President Woodruff led the multitude in a great and sacred shout: “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna to God and the Lamb!”
There had been nothing before it and there has been nothing just like it since.
The shout was an expression of worship. It was an expression of gratitude. This was an unequaled day of thanksgiving. This was a day of which these people had dreamed for almost forty years. You have heard and read and seen much recently concerning that forty-year struggle.
In July of 1847 Brigham Young had pointed out the location, only four days after the pioneers arrived in the valley. That spot had been marked by Wilford Woodruff. On April 6, 1853, the cornerstones were laid. All of you are familiar with the history of the years that followed—years of effort and heartbreaking disappointment; years of labor in sunshine and storm to bring great blocks of granite from these everlasting hills and to dress that stone, each piece according to a carefully designed pattern; years of unyielding faith in the pursuit of a goal.
These were years during which three other beautiful temples had been erected in this territory—in St. George, in Logan, and in Manti.
But the greatest dream of all centered here on Temple Square. And now by April of 1892 the exterior walls, steeples, and roof had been completed. Small wonder that the people shouted hosanna. A generation and more had passed since the work had commenced. Wilford Woodruff was now eighty-five and President of the Church. Before the vast crowd assembled on that day, Elder Francis M. Lyman made a motion that they now finish the interior and dedicate the temple one year from that day, April 6, 1893, forty years from the day of the laying of the cornerstones.
A mighty shout of approval filled the air.
But it was one thing to say yes in the excitement of the occasion and another to actually accomplish the work. Some with practical minds and substantial experience said it could never be done.
The building was a shell. A mighty work of consecrated effort was commenced to finish the interior.
Floors were laid, partitions set in place, plumbing installed, and electrical lines run. And then came the tremendous finishing work.
Wooden lath by the mile was nailed to the framing. Lime by the ton was slaked to become plaster. Timber was cut, seasoned, sawed, and shaped into magnificently beautiful woodwork.
It must have appeared impossible to get all of this done in a year’s time. But craftsmen who had learned their exacting trades in Europe and the British Isles, and who had come as converts to these valleys of western America, exerted themselves unsparingly. Somehow it happened. Somehow it all came together, and this within a period of twelve months.
Wonder of wonders and miracle of miracles, it was ready on the fifth of April. Leading newspapers of America had sent correspondents. Unstinting was their praise of what they saw. The day before the dedication President Woodruff invited a substantial number of nonmembers of the Church to go through the building. They were moved. They recognized that here was beauty that had come not alone of skill but also of inspiration.

As we develop these necessary attributes, how do we still keep our own personality? As I mentioned, I have not completely developed the Christlike attribute of patience, especially on the road. I do not usually cut people off or yell, but as I pass, you may see me saying to myself, “Come on, people, let’s go!” I don’t think my frustration makes me a horrible person, but it definitely is not Christlike.

A while ago I decided to start listening to Spanish teaching podcasts while driving to help with my impatience. Now if you see me talking in my car, I am no longer asking you to go faster. Instead, I am practicing very important phrases, such as, “¿Dónde está el queso?”

This practice of trying to become more patient has also taught me to learn by listening and repeating. I have always been the type of person who needs to see things in addition to hearing them. Now I have the capability of learning in a new way. Thus, in the process of becoming more Christlike in patience, I have developed a new personality trait that defines who I am, and it is one that I am much more proud of than road rage.

It had been years since I had attended sacrament meeting at the care center. But now, representing the stake Relief Society presidency, I had come back to visit a ward conference session at the nursing home.
As the prelude music signaled the beginning of the meeting, I glanced around the room. Some of those who attended were suffering the infirmities of old age. Others had been stricken with abnormalities at birth, and their whole lives had been upward struggles. Just to sit or to be strapped to a wheelchair was an accomplishment.
To my left was a familiar wheelchair, a little apart from the semicircle. I had seen this little lady each time I had visited. Thick, straight hair, squared to the chin, framed her bony face. Her jaw was twisted and loose, and her long tongue often hung out. The rest of her body was twisted and contorted, as though her joints were trying to bend in the wrong direction. But, strapped to her wheelchair, she seemed to await the meeting as anxiously as anyone else.
We sang and prayed, and as the meeting progressed, I watched the sacrament table. One of the priests seemed confident and experienced, while the other looked nervous. Then the deacons caught my eye as they approached the table, received the trays, and began to pass the sacrament.
One of them stepped up to the woman in the wheelchair. Her arm was twisted through the bar of the arm rail; her palsied shoulder did not respond. As the deacon approached, her twisted, toothless mouth fell open. Without hesitation, he took a piece of bread and placed it on her tongue.
From across the room came a high-pitched voice: “Did you see that sweet boy give bread to Rosie?”
At the amen ending the prayer on the water, I thought, “Shall I get up and help her with that tiny cup? How will she manage?” While I sat in my chair, the same deacon gently poured the water into that helpless mouth, blessing Rosie again with his service.
I sat, ashamed at my failure to act. Then, as that deacon stood before me, I saw the trembling in his hands, the questioning in his eyes, a pleading to know if he had done right. All I had seen was his strength and compassion. I nodded and tried to reassure him with a smile.
Had he been primed or prepared for that moment, or was it spontaneous? Either way, it was a hard thing for a 12-year-old boy. And I was overcome with appreciation for a young priesthood servant quietly fulfilling just another quorum assignment.

The Maucotels suggest another way to make family night enjoyable: relate the treat to the lesson. For instance, one Monday night they read some scriptures on patience and, at the same time, made homemade ice cream.
Fourteen-year-old Isaac taught the lesson, sharing scriptures on patience. He said that making ice cream by hand takes patience. You have to put in some work while you wait for the results you want.
His parents and four siblings listened to Isaac while they shook their bags of ice cream. Then they dug in, eating the cold, creamy chocolate ice cream right out of the bag. (See sidebar: A Lesson on Patience.)

It was finally here. My favorite time of the summer: Young Women camp. I was super excited because I was bringing my best friend, who was of another faith.

A few weeks earlier I had started bringing my friend to Mutual. She enjoyed the first activity and wanted to keep coming back. The other girls and I talked a lot about Young Women camp, so when it was almost time for camp, she asked if she could come. I said yes, of course, but the problem was convincing her parents. They weren’t keen on the Mormon religion and had denied her going with me to church before.

I went over to their house to bring the papers for camp and talked to her parents about letting her come, but I wasn’t sure they would let her go. That night I prayed earnestly to Heavenly Father that her parents’ hearts would be softened. I called back the next day and they had agreed to let her go!

I was glad my friend was coming to camp but nervous at the same time. I was scared that she would feel out of place when we played gospel-oriented games or sang hymns around the campfire. I was also scared because I felt like my friend didn’t really care for religion. I spent a lot of time praying that things would all go well at camp.

It turned out that I hadn’t needed to worry. All of us, including my friend, had fun playing games, hiking, and laughing. It was the night hike and testimony meeting, however, that were my favorite parts of camp.

It was stake camp, and every ward had their own campsite. For the night hike, the girls were separated into several groups and then each group took turns going from one campsite to another, where they had different speakers talk on women who had “lived as they believed” (that year’s camp theme). As we sat around the campfires and listened to the different speakers talk about courageous women, we felt the Spirit so strongly.

I glanced from time to time at my friend but couldn’t read her expression and couldn’t tell if she was paying attention to anything the speakers said. As we neared the end of the night hike however, my friend turned to me and the first words out of her mouth touched me deeply.

“I’m going to camp every year.”

I smiled and silently thanked Heavenly Father that my friend had been able to feel the Spirit. She had enjoyed the games and having fun, but she had felt the Spirit, and it was what made her want to come back again.

The next night was our last night at camp and our testimony meeting. My friend was confused as to what a testimony was so I quickly explained as best I could. She didn’t look too excited. After the opening prayer, the bishop and several young women bore beautiful testimonies and the Spirit was very strong.

My friend, who never liked to talk in public, stood up to share her feelings. She explained that even though she was of a different religion, watching us girls read our scriptures and pray had touched her. She said that after being here at camp, she wanted to start being a better person and was going to try to be nicer to her family. She also said that coming to camp was probably the best decision she had ever made. She sat down and I glanced over at her and saw there were tears in her eyes. I had never seen her become emotional or cry, but the Spirit of the Lord touched her so deeply it moved her to tears.

This experience at camp taught me a lot about how the Spirit touches the lives of others and about the power of testimonies. The Spirit can speak to everyone regardless of who they are. I now better understand the importance of having a strong testimony and sharing it with others. The gospel can touch the lives of those you would never expect.

Over a year ago, as I was walking through Temple Square, one of the sister missionaries approached me and asked, “Do you remember me? I am from Florida.” She told me her name, Sister Aida Chilan. Yes, I remembered meeting her and her family. Her stake president had suggested we visit her family. It became apparent that we were there for their daughter Aida, who had not been baptized. After our visit and more than a year of teaching and fellowshipping, Aida was baptized.

After we visited on Temple Square, she wrote me a letter. She said: “I know with all my heart that Heavenly Father knows each of us and that He continues to place us in each other’s paths for a reason. Thank you for being one of my missionaries, for reaching out to me and finding me five years ago.”14 Aida also sent me her conversion story recounting the “divine coincidences” which have taken place in her life that have led to her baptism and confirmation, serving a mission on Temple Square, and her recent temple marriage.15

Was it a mere coincidence that the stake president had steered us to the Chilan home or that she and I would later meet on Temple Square? Aida’s testimony bears record that this was all part of God’s “divine design.”