Gospel Story Finder

A third visit involved me, the bishop, and another colleague. We entered the home of an active member and grandmother who was caring for at least ten less-active children and young adults. After we got acquainted, I invited them to share their favourite scriptures. Diana promptly replied that Jeremiah 29:11 was a meaningful scripture to her. (This is a beautiful scripture and not often quoted.) I asked her why she loved this scripture, and she explained that it reminds her that the Lord loves her. She then paraphrased Isaiah 49:16, saying, “I know that He loves me and will never forget me because He has written my name in the palms of His hands.”

I will not forget this sweet experience with Diana and her scriptures. We took this opportunity to discuss our need to remember Him. We spoke of the blessing of partaking the sacrament every week as one way of remembering Him. We highlighted the significance of the promise, “If ye do always remember me ye shall have my Spirit to be with you” (3 Nephi 18:7).

Melusi and the two families we visited are once again actively participating in church. Elder Mervyn B. Arnold of the Seventy said, “As we go to the rescue, God gives us power, encouragement, and blessings.”1 I have learned that we will receive help and inspiration when we are on the Lord’s errand. We surely do not go alone when we go to rescue His children. He has indeed graven us upon the palms of His hands and will therefore never forget any of His children.

I have gone far in my family history, and the more I have been doing, the more I am dreaming about my ancestors. Let me share only two dreams.
First: I will never forget the dream I had about two years ago, about my paternal great-uncle Steven. In that dream, I traveled to my hometown and wanted to come back. I got to the market square, where I wanted to get a car back to my base. Then I saw a car and entered it. When we moved, I looked through the car window, and I saw Uncle Steven running after the car and stopping it. When the car stopped, he entered at the back, where I sat and started pointing at my face and said, “What did I do to you? Why do you not want to help me the way you are helping others?”
When I woke up, I was confused, so I narrated the dream to one of my sons. He told me that the dream I had was about doing temple work for our ancestors. I told him that I didn’t know how I would do this one because I don’t know much about Uncle Steven and I don’t know how I can trust his lineage. We are not from the same village.
My son told me to pray to our Heavenly Father for direction on what to do. So I prayed. One day our most senior brother, my first cousin Emeka, who wasn’t a Christian (he was a traditional man), called me to discuss something. We talked on the phone, and when the discussion was finished, I seized the opportunity to ask him about our Uncle Steven. He acknowledged he knew things about him, and he sent the information that he had to me. I kept on asking him about many people. He sent me information he had for about 15 people. I handed that information to my son to be doing temple work for them.
Second: I had another dream when I traveled home again. I was coming out from my father’s compound, and somebody called my name. I looked on my right side, and I saw Emeka’s stepmother, Virginia, and our uncle’s wife, Regina, and also Emeka’s senior sister, Victoria. All are dead. Emeka’s stepmother was the one who called me. As I was going towards them, Emeka’s sister backed me away, telling them something. Then I heard Emeka’s stepmother saying, “No, no. She is the one helping us.” Our Uncle’s wife was supporting her, saying, “She is the one helping us.”
These experiences taught me how close we are to our dead and help me understand that it is I helping them.

My 86-year-old mother’s health had been declining for several months, and I feared that she would not be with us much longer. My husband and I had planned to travel to Lille, which was 80 miles (130 km) away, for stake conference, but I worried about leaving my sister alone to care for our mother.
I pleaded to Heavenly Father that all would be well while we were gone. Immediately the lyrics “Peace, be still” (“Master, the Tempest Is Raging,” Hymns, no. 105) came to mind, and my fears diminished. We left for the conference feeling calm and reassured that the Lord had heard my prayer and was watching over my mother.
Everything did go well while we were gone.
Some time later, my sister called to ask if my husband, Yves, could come help lift my mother into bed. Shortly after he arrived at my sister’s home, my mother passed away.
Not wanting to relay this news over the phone, Yves called me and said only that my sister was panicked. He suggested I gather some personal belongings because he would be home soon to pick me up.
I began packing my suitcase expecting that I might stay with my sister for a while to help care for our mother. As I began, I felt guided by the Spirit that packing was no longer necessary. I knew that my mother had died. But I also felt peace, just like I had before leaving for stake conference.
Yves arrived home, and he struggled to explain what had happened. To ease his burden, I told him I already knew that Mother was gone.
Knowledge of the gospel continued to support me, and I was able to comfort my sister as we grieved for our mother. Many times I prayed for peace, and each time I felt reassured that Heavenly Father and my Savior Jesus Christ were helping me through my sorrow and pain. Through our faith and prayers we found what the sacred hymn invokes: “Peace, be still.”
Nicole Germe, Pas-de-Calais, France

Dr. Heyerdahl—Well, that was what caused me to take Ra II. I discovered that there were actually some people, the extreme isolationists, who still said it couldn’t be done—and they were measuring those last hundreds of yards. They said those were the most important: unless you really get to the other end, you haven’t proven that it can be done. Also, my own curiosity about reed boats continued to build. By continuing to research, I learned that the Aymara Indians of Lake Titicaca in Bolivia build boats much like those in ancient Egypt—more so than those in central Africa. I felt it was worth a second experiment because of the way they build the stern; also, the way they tie the papyrus together in bundles is much different. So I brought four Aymara Indians over to Morocco to build Ra II. We built a boat forty feet long, ten feet shorter than Ra I, and of different design. We set sail May 17, 1970, and after 57 days of sailing—3,270 miles—we reached Bridgetown, Barbados Islands. Ra I had left on May 25, 1969, and we had abandoned her July 18, about 600 miles from Barbados.

About two weeks later, we had another of those extra special family home evenings. And again we felt impressed to proceed with a kidney transplant. Again I went to the phone and called a brother, this time my older brother, Craig. Again I received a positive response.

Within a week, Craig, his wife Penny, and their one-year-old son Jason flew in from California. That same afternoon I went to the hospital, and Craig was admitted the next day.

Our names were placed on the prayer rolls of six temples from London to Los Angeles by friends of the family.

The night before surgery we held family home evening in my hospital room. At one point I tried to tell the family that it didn’t seem worth the risk or sacrifice required of my brother to attempt that transplant. But Dad looked at me soberly, put a hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “We all feel that this is what the Lord wants, and your brother is proud to be able to do it. Remember, Brent, we’ll all live to see you running across the park lawn again, with that large grin of yours.”

Surgery began the next morning at 6:00 A.M. with my nurse giving me a sedative before the operation. At the end of the day I opened my eyes to see my parents close to my bed. I was back in my hospital room, and I knew everything was all right.

I remember seeing other members of the family briefly that evening. But I couldn’t find Craig. “How is Craig? Where is my brother?”

A familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Brent, Craig is fine and your new kidney is fine, too.” With those words I went to sleep. “Thanks, Father in Heaven. Thanks, Craig. Thanks a lot, family.”

During those first few days after my transplant, I got a feeling that something was wrong when I looked at the troubled faces of my parents and brothers. All was not well with Craig. By the third day I was sure he had died and no one would tell me about it. Actually, he hadn’t died. But he was very ill and having a difficult time recovering from his part of the surgery.

On the afternoon of the third day, my father and brother carried Craig to see me. He was the color of a ripe banana. With a half smile on his face he said, “How’s it going, brother?” At that moment, seeing his pain and considering his sacrifice, I knew what love was and what having a family meant.

Cindy nodded slowly. She thought of Mrs. Clark, her friend Linda’s grandmother. Cindy’d seen Mrs. Clark once. She was hunched over in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. She didn’t answer Linda’s questions but just sat there, constantly rubbing the chair arms with her hands. Linda had said that her grandmother seemed happiest when she sat in the rocker. It bothered Cindy; she never visited Mrs. Clark again.

“I’m sure Mrs. Nealy wouldn’t mind your seeing him,” said Mrs. Tyler. “I have their number. You can call from here.”
“That’s OK. I think I shouldn’t bother them.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Tyler busied herself with some packages.
She sees all right, Cindy thought. She sees what a chicken I am. I don’t care—I can’t bear to see Mr. Nealy be like Linda’s grandmother.
As she watched Mrs. Tyler place stamps on the packages, Cindy thought about the first time she saw Mr. Nealy. She’d been too shy to talk to him, and the time had really dragged while she waited for her mother. But after Mr. Nealy made friends with her, that hour flew by. Later she realized that Mr. Nealy enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. Between three and four o’clock was a slow period when there were few travelers. She helped him sweep the floor, wash the windows, check for burned out light bulbs. He talked about trains, and she talked about school.
He was fond of black licorice and often asked her to go to the nearby store and buy him a package of it. She remembered how he always said, “Black licorice, Cindy. Not red. And not the shoestring kind, either.” And he always gave her extra money to buy candy for herself.
As the memories flooded her mind, Cindy saw him standing very tall, with beautiful silver hair and a thick mustache. He was strong, picking up cargo as if the crates were empty. That Christmas she gave him a conch shell that she’d found in Florida while on vacation, and he gave her a pin in the shape of a caboose. She still had the pin.
Thinking of that shell made Cindy smile. Mr. Nealy kept it at his office, where it lay among the forms and tickets and stamps. It looked out of place, but he never moved it, except to put it to his ear sometimes and listen to the sound of the sea. “That’s where I should be right now,” he’d say, “lying on a beach, loafing my life away.” Then they would laugh.
To see him like Linda’s grandmother—Cindy shuddered at the thought. Turning now to go, she said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
“You, too, dear.” Mrs. Tyler gave Cindy a good-bye hug. “Come back to visit.”
“I will.”
As Cindy passed the train station once more, she tried to not think of Mr. Nealy. But the thoughts kept coming.
The store had not changed. Cindy quickly found the black licorice at the candy counter. Maybe he won’t be as sick as Linda’s grandmother, she thought. Maybe he just started getting that way. And I don’t have to stay long. She fumbled with the licorice, trying to make up her mind. Should I go? She saw a pay phone on the wall. Should I call?
Fifteen minutes later she pushed the doorbell of the Nealy house. Patting the package of licorice in her jacket pocket, she felt good about her decision.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Cindy,” Mrs. Nealy greeted her. “Henry will love seeing you again.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Of course not. As I told you when you phoned, we love to have company. Come in.”
Cindy felt a little strange. She’d never pictured Mr. Nealy having a regular house. The station had seemed like his home—he’d cared for it and cleaned it as if he lived there day and night.
“Mr. Nealy doesn’t get many visitors anymore. At first he might look strange to you, but it will pass after a little while. He’s in the living room.”
Cindy followed Mrs. Nealy toward the sound of a TV. She could see the back of Mr. Nealy’s head as they entered the room. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of the television.
Mrs. Nealy bent over the chair. “Henry, look who’s come to see you. It’s Cindy.”
Cindy watched the chair swivel toward her. Mr. Nealy was hunched over, his eyes showing no recognition. He pushed the chair around and around, and each time he passed her, his eyes remained blank.
“Sit here, Cindy.” Mrs. Nealy pointed to the sofa. She asked Cindy questions about her new hometown, her school, and her new friends. After most of Cindy’s answers, Mrs. Nealy said, “Isn’t that nice, Henry?” or “Did you hear that, Henry?”
As she watched the retired stationmaster circle that green chair round and round, Cindy thought that it was hopeless to even pretend that he knew what they were saying. Seeing him was worse than seeing Linda’s grandmother, because Cindy could not forget how he used to be. As she talked to Mrs. Nealy, memories of his deep laughter, his wide smile, his stories and silly jokes swirled within her until she could no longer bear the sight and sound of his chair. “I have to go, Mrs. Nealy. It’s getting late.”
She pulled the licorice from her jacket. “Would you give these to Mr. Nealy. He used to like black licorice.”
“He still does. He’ll be pleased.”
“Mrs. Nealy, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“In his way, he knows. Please—you give him the candy.” She got up, and Cindy followed her to the swivel chair. “Henry, Cindy has a present for you.” She stopped the chair.
“Mr. Nealy, these are for you.” Cindy waved the candy in front of him, trying to catch his attention.
When he saw the licorice, he grabbed at it. Close to him now, Cindy saw that he wasn’t so different, after all. He still had the lovely silver hair and thick mustache, his eyes were still deep blue, and he still wore his railroad ring.
“Cin, Cin,” he uttered, staring at her.
“Yes, Mr. Nealy. It’s me, Cindy.”
He raised a hand, and Cindy stooped to let him touch her face. He smiled, then pointed to a table. Cindy could not understand his words, but she recognized the conch shell.
“You still have this?”
Cindy picked it up and took it to him. But when she tried to place it in his hands, he pushed the shell back to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy. It will remind me of you.”
He smiled, and Cindy decided that somehow he understood. Then he ripped open the licorice and started his chair whirling again, and she knew that he was back in his own world. She turned to Mrs. Nealy. “It hurts to see him this way—is he in pain?”
“No, Cindy. He isn’t in pain.”
“He isn’t, but we are.” Cindy put the shell to her ear and listened to the sound of the sea. She looked up again at Mrs. Nealy and managed a brave smile. “I’m glad that at least we have some happy memories.”

It was April 1992—summer in the Philippines. Our family was spending a vacation at a beach resort in Bagac, on the Bataan Peninsula. As soon as we arrived, my brothers and sisters ran down to the beach and jumped into the ocean. My parents went to look for a cottage to rent.
Confined to a wheelchair, I waited in the shade of some coconut palms, feeling the cool breeze caress my skin. I inhaled deeply and felt my face break into a grin. I turned my gaze to the seemingly endless sea and watched the sun blazing in the sky, a brilliant ball of fire.
On the beach, people were enjoying the warm sand; their laughter was audible even from a distance. In the water, swimmers were engaged in all kinds of activities. I watched my younger brothers practice their strokes. Elsewhere, some young people were riding jet skis or propelling paddle boats.
I thought, How lucky these people are to have the freedom to fully enjoy the beauties of the earth!
And then a wave of self-pity washed over me. I could not do the same. I will live all my life in a wheelchair. A feeling of gloom settled on me. I felt as though an actual force was trying to destroy my faith in Heavenly Father.
I began to pray. I prayed with all the fervor of my soul for this feeling of depression to leave. Into my mind came words I had read in the Bible. At some happy day in the future, it said, “the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart [deer], and the tongue of the dumb sing” (Isa. 35:5–6). A familiar yearning welled up deep inside me. My fondest desire is to walk, but doing so is beyond my abilities.
I was startled from my thoughts by the laughter of young children. They were filled with the excitement of discovery as they searched the wet sand for seashells. Suddenly my spirits lifted, and peace filled my heart. Someday I would walk. Someday I would even “leap as an hart.” In the meantime, my physical disabilities did not prevent me from feasting my senses on the beauties of the earth, pondering my blessings, and praising the Lord for them. Bowing my head, I uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the privileges I enjoy.

In December of 1989, the beautiful and long-awaited Las Vegas temple was dedicated in inspiring sessions, which continued for three days. The messages and music in the dedicatory sessions lifted each heart heavenward and prompted the listener to keep the commandments of God and to emulate the example of righteous living taught by Jesus of Nazareth. Thoughts of self yielded to consideration for others. One sermon stressed the injunction of the Lord as recorded in Matthew:
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matt. 6:19–21).
After the session during which this passage of scripture had been presented, a handwritten letter, carefully tucked away in a sealed envelope, was handed to me by an usher. May I share with you the contents of this touching letter:
“Dear President Monson:
“My husband and I feel the completion and dedication of this beautiful Las Vegas Nevada Temple is the finest gift we could receive during this sacred season. Temples are such a sweet gift to all the world; and as you spoke of righteous Saints who are worthy to obtain the blessings of the Lord’s house but lack the financial means to attend a temple, our hearts were so touched.
“President Monson, there must be a family somewhere who needs to attend the temple, because as my dear companion and I spoke of our great joy during this special Christmas season, we both commented as to how any store-bought gift would pale in comparison to what we have received in these dedicatory services. Instead of spending our budgeted Christmas funds for some gift from a local store, we would like to give you this $500 to help some family waiting to be endowed and sealed for all eternity. We appreciate your assisting us in our gifts to each other this year.”
The letter was unsigned. The givers remain anonymous. Perhaps today this brother may be viewing this session of general conference. If so, he may be pleased to learn that this gift has made it possible for a worthy family from the Villa Real District of the Portugal Porto Mission to journey to the temple and receive their precious temple blessings. To the unknown givers of this priceless gift I extend my thanks for being your brother’s keeper. I have the inner feeling that your Christmas season was marked by joy and filled with peace.

President Kimball, we love you. Prior to getting into my text, let me offer my apologies to you in the audience and across the world who must listen to these proceedings through a translator. During the past year, I have been privileged to travel extensively in your lands, and I have a feeling of love and respect for you. I apologize that I cannot speak to you in your language. May the Lord bless us, as I speak, that you will be able to hear things just as personally as if I were speaking in your language. Perhaps the day will come when we Saints on the Wasatch Front will have to put on earphones so we can understand what’s going on.
I hope I can convey to you the humility with which I approach this calling. I’ve just recently been released as a second counselor. What does one say, when one day you are the second counselor of the Bountiful Thirteenth Ward bishopric, and the next day you’re the Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric. In the Regional Representatives’ seminar Friday morning, Elder Russell M. Nelson reminisced that last year he was sitting in the Regional Representatives’ seminar—sitting very inconspicuously in the back, and very comfortably. Later that day he received an interview which turned his life upside down.
Last Friday I was in the Regional Representatives’ seminar, but my ticket wasn’t stamped “Regional Representative”; it was stamped “Invited Guest.” By four o’clock that afternoon, I had received a letter signed by President Hinckley telling me I was to speak for thirteen minutes in the Sunday afternoon session of conference.
My first question to President Hinckley wasn’t “What should I say?” It was “How do I get in?”
As late as last Wednesday night, I was rehearsing for a ward play. (By the way, Sister Lalli, wherever you are, I’m sorry I wasn’t to play practice yesterday morning.) I was released from the bishopric in January after serving for four years. How I loved that calling, and the brethren with whom I served—Bishop Lee J. Lalli, and his able and dedicated first counselor, D. Ray Alexander—Lee J. and Ray, as I affectionately called them.
Since my release I’ve been traveling extensively, and therefore have been without a calling for two months. At that play practice Wednesday, I sent a signal to the new bishop, Russ Herscher, that I was ready to reenter the “job market.” I hope you won’t feel that I’m an aspiring person, but I told the Primary president, Susan Mabey, I wanted to teach Primary—ideally my seven-year-old daughter’s class. I know sanctification comes not with any particular calling, but with genuine acts of service, often for which there is no specific calling.
Now, despite the humility with which I approach this call, I have full confidence in my ability to perform. This, however, is not self-confidence, but confidence in the fact that the Lord makes every man and woman equal to the assignment that he or she is given. Therefore, I state clearly but humbly, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” (1 Ne. 3:7.)
Brothers and sisters, I have never been a bishop. Since Friday afternoon I have felt puzzled, almost bewildered and overwhelmed, at how a man could be called to be a member of the Presiding Bishopric without having had the experience of being a bishop. I agonized for twenty-four hours until yesterday afternoon, when President Hinckley laid his hands upon my head and ordained me a bishop. I heard the voice of the Lord say in my heart, “No, Glenn, you have never been a bishop, but now you are a bishop, and always will be.”

The pocketknife always stayed in the closet, hanging from the shelf by a cord. Sometimes when I bent over to get something from the closet floor, I would hit my head against it. I had almost used the knife a few times—for camping or to cut a piece of bread. But I had never dared to.
I had always dreamed of having a knife like this. It was just the size I liked, and its handle was made of deer antler. But there it hung, swinging like a pendulum, unused. I had handled it just a few times, opening, one by one, its steel blades and accessories. In our Uruguayan climate, it was already beginning to rust.
I had decided long ago that I could never use the knife. In the first place, my conscience bothered me every time I held it. In the second place, if I used the knife, I ran the risk of losing my best friend. You see, the knife belonged to him. I had stolen it.
It had happened very quickly, during the confusion of a moment, when a group of youth from our branch were all together. Ariel didn’t notice at the time that his knife was missing. And now the knife held me prisoner.
In the two years since then, the knife had never been far from my thoughts. My bitter mistake had made me resolve to never again, under any circumstances, take something that was not mine. But as far as the knife itself was concerned, I vacillated. Back and forth I went in my mind, trying to decide what to do with it.
And now I had another reason to think about the knife. Our priests quorum was preparing for a fireside with the Laurels in our ward. The fireside was to be on a Sunday afternoon, and the priests would be giving presentations that focused on one principle of the gospel.
The principle we had selected was repentance, and each of us was to discuss one of the steps involved in repenting of sin: realizing that you have done something wrong, being sorry, confessing, making restitution, and resolving to never do it again. By some unhappy coincidence, I was assigned the topic of restitution.
Of course, the pocketknife swung into my thoughts immediately. What was I to do? With too few opportunities to associate with other members of the Church in Uruguay, I could not conceive of missing the fireside or not sharing the company of my friends. But how could I talk about restitution and repentance while my terrible guilt for stealing the knife hung around my neck like a great weight?
Finally, I took the pocketknife from the cord in the closet. I did everything I could to make it look like new. I mixed some cleanser with lubricating oil and rubbed each part. I consulted a mechanic at the place where I worked and tried washing it with solvents. But the rust was already part of the metal. It was impossible to make the knife the way it had been.
On the Sunday of the fireside, Ariel was surprised when I asked him to follow me into one of the classrooms at church.
“What’s the big mystery?” he asked.
“I have something to give you,” I said. I took the knife out of my pocket and placed it in his hands.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the knife I stole from you.”
“You? Stole from me? No way!”
“Yes—I stole it from you.”
“I thought I had lost it! Where did you find it?”
He did not want to believe me. I explained in detail how I had stolen the knife. “Will you forgive me, Ariel?” I asked when I had finished. “I have to know if you can forgive me!”
He embraced me. I returned his embrace. We wept together. Then he said, “We are friends. Of course I forgive you.” We had a prayer and embraced each other once more before we left the classroom. No one else had any idea what had happened.
How wonderful our presentation was that night! And how delicious the refreshments were! I could not remember when I had felt happier.

Of all the requirements Rocco has fulfilled to earn his various awards, he points to one in particular as most valuable for his personal growth: “Reading the Book of Mormon,” Rocco says without hesitation. “That was the biggest and most rewarding challenge.”

“I had read the Book of Mormon once already, a year or so ago, but I was just reading to get it done,” Rocco explains. “When I started reading it again, I really wanted to learn and gain a testimony of it.” He approached reading the Book of Mormon in a completely different way his second time through. “Every time I read now, I pray before to ask Heavenly Father’s Spirit to be with me as I read.”

Rocco’s already begun on his next big project—to more actively share his testimony with others as he prepares to serve a full-time mission. His Scouting experiences and earning the Duty to God Award have helped him in his personal development and in becoming a missionary. “To spread the gospel, I needed to know what is in the Book of Mormon, and I needed to know that it is true,” he says. “After reading the Book of Mormon for the second time, I received a testimony of it.”

Now that he has received his call to serve as a full-time missionary, the testimony Elder du Plessis has built is proving much more useful than the rope-and-log bridge he built for his Springbok construction project. However, some of the backwoodsman skills he learned as a Scout may come in handy as he serves in Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi.

Her mother expected her to continue with her university education and earn a master’s degree. “But I told her I wanted to go on a mission. She said that I couldn’t, that I mustn’t sacrifice the years I should be in school. I prayed very hard that my mom would let me go. And then I learned something very important.
“You see, we had a young man living in our home. He was about twenty-five years old and was like an adopted son to my mother. His health was poor, and my mother took care of him and supported him when he served for a time as a Buddhist monk. I was very jealous of him and of the attention my mother paid him. I wouldn’t even sit at the same table with him.
“When I prayed to Heavenly Father for my mom to let me go on a mission, I received the answer that first I would have to show her that I loved everyone, even the young man I was so jealous of. It was a very hard thing for me to accept. But the next morning when I saw the young man, I waved at him and said ‘Hi!’ It was the first word I had said to him in seven years. When I turned to face my mother, she had tears in her eyes. I knew then that everything would be all right. I told her that I really wanted to go on a mission and that her support was most important. I really appreciate all that my mother has done for me.”

I also prayed to know the truth when I finished reading the Book of Mormon. However, I didn’t receive an answer the first time I asked. After nearly a week of frustrated, tearful prayer, I watched The Testaments of One Fold and One Shepherd. As I watched the movie, I felt a burning in my heart, and I knew that now was the time to ask. I got down on my knees and asked in full faith and with an open heart if the Book of Mormon was true. I knew that if I received an answer, I would act upon it, regardless of the consequences. The answer I got was so powerful that I continue to feel it every day.

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.
However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.
Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”
How right she is!

When the Newport Beach California Temple was under construction, the youth of the Orange California Stake did a little constructing of their own at youth conference. With the conference focus on temples, the youth were given two hours and challenged to build models of 12 temples.

Two hours later, the floor of the cultural hall was covered with Styrofoam “snowflakes,” but the 175 amateur builders had created masterpieces that wowed local architects.

Huddling in groups of about 15 each, the youth began the project. With only Styrofoam, glue guns, and bits of black paper, grass, and flowers, they created amazingly detailed replicas of the Bern Switzerland, Bountiful Utah, Edmonton Alberta, Houston Texas, Laie Hawaii, Los Angeles California, Mount Timpanogos Utah, Nauvoo Illinois, Oakland California, St. George Utah, Salt Lake, and Washington D.C. Temples.

The youth found that as they built the temples and began to focus on the beauty and peace they symbolize, they became more unified and creative. “We understand more now what it will mean to have our own temple here in Orange County,” said one participant.

Elder Thomas H. Hilton and Sister Sarah M. Hilton were serving on a mission in Samoa where they lost three of their children between 1891 and 1894. Little Jeanette lived less than a year, George Emmett for only seven days, and Thomas Harold for a year and a half.

Of the death of Thomas Harold the record says: “On Sunday the 11th, he was not feeling very well. … For two days following he appeared to be improving, but on the morning of the 14th, his mother again became concerned about his welfare. From then until his death, on March 17, 1894, everything that loving hands could do was done for his recovery, but he grew rapidly worse. …
“Oh how loath we all were to believe that it was so! How sad to see our dear sister again bereft, and her so far from dear parents and friends who she has left for the gospel’s sake.
“Thomas Harold Hilton was about one and a half years old, a beautiful little boy and very dearly beloved by all the missionaries, as well as the natives who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for the bereaved parents and the blessings of the Lord are invoked upon them.”

In 1959, I turned 8 and wanted to be baptised, but my father would not give his permission. I continued to attend Primary with all my Church friends, then at age 12 I started to attend MIA (which stood for Mutual Improvement Association) as it was then called. My friends obtained the Aaronic Priesthood and progressed from deacon to teacher to priest.
In those days, we met in a big house, and as members we were asked to raise money towards the building of a meetinghouse, and to also to work so many hours on the construction of the meetinghouse. Once I turned 15 and about to leave school, I decided to go on a building mission on the Worcester meetinghouse, as a site had been found. My parents were divorced by that point, and my mother kept me and gave me ten shillings a week pocket money. Whilst building the meetinghouse, I turned 16 and my father told me, “If you still want to join those Mormons go ahead.”
I told our then-branch president, President Smart, that my father had given permission for me to be baptised but that I had decided that as “I’ve waited this long, I’ll wait a little longer if I can be the first to be baptised in the new chapel.”
On March 10, 1968, the chapel was dedicated by President Cullimore. On the following day, Monday 11 March, I was the first person to be baptised in the Worcester meetinghouse, by Brother Ken Chapman. Followed by four others also getting baptised, I was then confirmed a member of the Church by Brother Des Gorman, who was the building supervisor in charge of the construction.

President Hinckley recalls what happened when his father and mother followed the counsel of a living prophet.
In 1915 President Joseph F. Smith asked the people of the Church to have family home evening. My father said we would do so, that we would warm up the parlor where Mother’s grand piano stood and do what the President of the Church had asked.
We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories from his memory.
Out of those simple little meetings, held in the parlor of our old home, came something indescribable and wonderful. Our love for our parents was strengthened. Our love for brothers and sisters was enhanced. Our love for the Lord was increased. An appreciation for simple goodness grew in our hearts. These wonderful things came about because our parents followed the counsel of the President of the Church.

A few months ago, most of the youth in Salt Lake City’s Big Cottonwood Stake had never even heard of Urubamba, Peru. Now they’ll tell you it’s home to nearly 1,000 of their closest friends.
How did this unlikely friendship start? With one returned missionary named Van Evans. Brother Evans served his mission in Peru and now serves as a volunteer in an organization called the Humanitarian Foundation of the Andes. He told some of the youth and their leaders about the kinds of items that were needed in towns throughout the Andes. These items included basics like clothing, hygiene supplies, and building materials. After careful consideration, the youth decided to make Urubamba a part of their youth conference.
The original goal was to supply good Sunday clothes for each member of the LDS branch in Urubamba. Brekke Platt, a Laurel who served on the youth council, explained, “We didn’t want people to feel they couldn’t go to church because they didn’t have Sunday clothes.”
The young men and young women asked for donations from stake members. The results were overwhelming: more than 90 men’s suits were donated, as well as countless women’s dresses and children’s Sunday clothes.
By now the youth were getting excited about how great it felt to get things together for people who they knew would be thrilled to receive it, so they extended the scope of the project. They learned that hygiene supplies were desperately needed, so they got to work.
As part of their youth conference activity, the youth used donations from their stake to put together packets containing basic supplies like soap and toothpaste. Included in each packet was a written testimony and an expression of love.
Two young men jumped at the chance to complete their Eagle Scout requirements through service. The foundation was planning a trip to the Andes so it could build a medical post in Urubamba, but lots of preparatory work needed to be done at home first.
Scout John Tateoka gathered friends and family and coordinated a project of painting window frames, siding, and doors for the medical post. His fellow Scout, Adam Watts, contacted several construction suppliers for possible donations. In a short time, the necessary donations and work were complete, and supplies were shipped to Peru.
But the service didn’t stop there. The young people’s enthusiasm for the people in Urubamba was contagious, and soon donations of eyeglasses, sewing machines, seeds, and maternity supplies were pouring in.
So why is it that the people of this stake, who started out with a fairly small goal of providing some Sunday clothes, reached out so generously to people they had never even met?
According to Gary Brimley, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, the answer is simple. “We’re all members of one church,” he says. “We care for everyone and work together as one unit.”

Heather and Jodi wanted to see what rock formations they could find in the valley, but it was almost dark. They needed a light to help them find their way. Willie, DuShan, and Tommy brought a lantern, and soon they all discovered rocks that looked like the faces of people and animals. One rock even seemed to be wearing a hat!
The next day the five friends returned to see what Goblin Valley looked like in the sunshine. The strange rock creatures were still there! DuShan found a formation that reminded her of a man with a big nose. On the edge of the valley, the children saw how soft dirt and rock wear away to leave harder sandstone behind. That’s how Goblin Valley was formed.
These rock formations are in desert country where it is very hot. The heat didn’t stop Tommy from exploring right away, but DuShan needed a rest and found a carved rock that cradled her just right.
The rest of the afternoon was spent jumping, climbing, and hiking. Jodi discovered a rock that may soon lose its head! Another rock looked like an animal. Can you guess which animal? At the entrance of this valley is a group of rocks some people call the Three Wise Men. Other people call it the Three Ugly Sisters.
Many other rock creatures guard Goblin Valley, and the formations are constantly, though only gradually, changing.
Jodi, Willie, Heather, Tommy, and DuShan wanted to stay longer, but the sun was going down. Remembering how scary Goblin Valley had been the night before, they said good-bye to their ghostly buddies.