Gospel Story Finder

Like most priests, Steven P. was looking forward to sleeping in during his summer vacation. But then his bishop invited every temple-worthy member in the ward to do as many proxy ordinances in the temple during the summer as their circumstances would allow. Steven’s whole family decided to go to the temple early on two or three mornings each week.
Waking up at 5:00 a.m. was challenging at first, but after several trips “it became like clockwork,” Steven says. And he kept going back. By the end of summer, Steven had performed over 400 baptisms and confirmations. “It made me feel good to go to the temple to be baptized and confirmed for those who aren’t able to do it.”
For Steven, being with his family was an important part of going to the temple. “I feel the Spirit a lot stronger when I am with people I am familiar with,” Steven says. “We’re pretty close as a family as it is.” After attending the temple together frequently, “I feel we got closer as a family.”

Sarah sank back against the dusty seat and peered anxiously out the streaked window ot the bus. She managed a shaky smile at three figures peering up at her. Tears came unbidden, and Sarah drew back quickly, dashing them away. Then the bus began to snort and cough as the motor turned over in protest. Sarah felt her heart jump to her throat as she watched the faces search the windows for a last glimpse of their daughter. She waved frantically as the bus shook itself a final time and lumbered out into the street that ran by the Placertown meetinghouse. The bus, with it’s chattering load, swung laboriously around the corner, and the farewells were over.
Sarah settled back against the seat and fastened her hands around the small suitcase resting on her lap. She smiled down at the brown case that held the “reminders” her foster mother had chosen for this trip home. Each year for seven years Sister Allen had tucked a small package under her daughter’s arm and placed a warm kiss on her cheek as the bus drove up. Every year the long, anxious ride back to the reservation had been made bearable as Sarah examined each article and note enclosed. This trip, however, the case was not opened. Sarah was 17 now and anxious to test her newly discovered maturity. She would wait to open the package after she had returned to her home and blood family. Later, perhaps, in the privacy atop some wind-cooled mesa with only the rustling sagebrush to interrupt her thoughts, Sarah would examine her treasures.
Sarah stirred sleepily in her seat and glanced wearily out the window. With a start she realized that she had been asleep for several hours as the red rock mesas of the Navajo reservation came into sight. Her heart leapt as she saw the old trading post that signaled Keyah Tso and home lay only miles up the long, barren highway. Sarah shook out the folds of her dress and smoothed back the straight black hair that had tumbled into her eyes. She was excited as she thought of the reunion with her family.
Suddenly Sarah realized her lap was empty. The case was gone. Frantically she looked about and discovered it laying in the aisle beside her seat. Snatching it up, she clutched it protectively.
As the bus ground to a stop before the red-roofed building, Sarah caught sight of a small group of velveteen and dungaree-clad Navajos. One anxious figure stood shyly apart from the others. Sarah saw that her mother had donned her favorite red velveteen blouse and green cotton skirt for the occasion. The woman’s wrists and fingers were covered with silver and turquoise, and around her neck hung the beautiful turquoise necklace Sarah’s father had made just before his death. Her long, gray-streaked hair had been tied back in the traditional bitsi yaal knot. Her mother waited patiently as Sarah climbed down from the bus and ran to meet her. The two stood looking at each other for a long, silent moment. The older woman put her shoulder against her daughter’s in a shy gesture of welcome. Sarah placed her hand on the velveteen-covered arm and gently squeezed. A smile, a sigh, and the encounter was over. The girl turned back to the bus, waved a cheery goodbye to her friends, picked up her suitcase, and turned to her mother. Sarah cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and spoke to her mother. The sharp glottal sounds of Navajo felt strange and unaccustomed on her tongue. Soon she found herself chattering comfortably to the small group of Navajo women and children riding with her in the back of a ’56 pickup. As the clay-smeared vehicle bounced its way down the road to the Yazzie home, Sarah became the center of attention as the women and children listened avidly to the description of her way of life away from the reservation.
Suddenly the air seemed heavy with the odor of sagebrush, and Sarah knew she was home once again. Overhead an eagle winged across the sky before soaring behind the face of a red rock mesa. Then she saw the smoke curling from the mud chimney of the Yazzie hogan. The pickup stopped with a loud screech of brakes; children jumped over the sides. The wooden door of the home flew open, and Sarah saw the excited faces of her two brothers peering out. They showed no embarrassment as they greeted her and drew her impatiently to the sheep corral to meet the shaggy newborn lambs.
It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and the family had gone to bed that Sarah remembered her case. Already the memory of her other world had begun to dim. The familiar odors of the one-room dwelling and the sounds of a desert summer night had replaced the buzz of city life. The mutton stew and fry bread at dinner had seemed more than delicious to Sarah. She would have it again and again, but it would never seem as good as it had this first night home. She turned over on the skeepskin bed, burrowing herself into its warmth, when a gentle tug of memory brought forth the image of the brown case. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow.”
Sarah woke abruptly, gazing into a mischievous face. The face was attached to a small, wiggling body that was firmly planted on her stomach. She guiltily realized that she had slept in. Daylight was already beginning to fill the hogan, and she knew her mother had been up for several hours. Sarah put her squirming brother on the dirt floor of the room and scrambled into her faded jeans and calico shirt. She dashed cold water from a large metal bucket on the heavy wooden table into her face and ran a wire brush through her thick, tousled hair. On the table she found some cold potatoes and fry bread that tasted good with the chilling-cold well water. Outside in the distance Sarah could hear the bleating of the sheep. As she stepped out of the hogan into the bright sun, she saw the kneeling body of her mother. Sarah leaned over her and watched her work-roughened hands push the shuttle back and forth rapidly, marveling again at the beautiful and intricate designs appearing on the loom. Sarah felt proud as she realized that this rug would bring a very good price at the reservation trading post. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced observer was the tiny flaw in the colorful design. Sarah’s mother had left one thread unbound so that her soul would not be caught up and forever imprisoned in the rug—an old Navajo custom.
She felt a flash of fear as she realized how different her two worlds were. A hand reached out and tugged her to the loom. Sarah crouched beside her mother and took up the shuttle. Her fingers were clumsy as she worked to place the bright threads in their proper order. Soon she was engrossed in the project and didn’t notice her mother rise slowly to her feet. The old woman shook out the folds of her full yellow skirt and disappeared into the hogan.
An hour had passed before the young girl’s legs began to ache from the unaccustomed position. Her fingertips were sore from the pressure on the strings of the loom. Sarah tossed her hair from her eyes and, groaning a bit, rose to her feet. As she shook her legs, her mother appeared in the doorway. In her hands was a parcel wrapped in cloth, a remnant of an old skirt Sarah had worn years ago.
“Take this to John, my daughter,” the woman said. “He will be hungry.” Sarah took the package, waved to her mother, and started off across the sage-covered ground at a trot. She knew every bush, hole, and rock on this part of the reservation. Her brother would be with the sheep some miles away to the west. The fodder was good there this time of year; it was also their share of the reservation land. Good manners decreed that each family honor his neighbor’s grazing rights.
Sarah could hear the sheep not far ahead. She approached quietly. Her brother was perched on a rock, chewing a weed, his eyes half-closed against the sun. Sarah dropped down beside him.
“Mom sent your lunch,” she said, a bit out of breath from the walk. “Why don’t you let me keep it, and you go on home. I’ll watch the sheep the rest of the day.”
“Sure you remember how?” teased her brother.
“Go on,” grinned Sarah, “get out of here,” and she aimed a playful kick as he jumped out of the way. He set out across the desert at a rabbit’s pace.
Sarah leaned contentedly against the rock and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. As the complacent animals grazed, Sarah dreamed girlish thoughts. A pesky fly buzzed about her ears and lit on her face. Lazily she batted at it, but it clung persistently to her nose, and she opened her eyes in exasperation. A darkly handsome face grinned familiarly down into her startled eyes. Sarah gasped in fright and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding wildly.
“I’m sorry, Sarah!” The boy choked with laughter. “It was too good a chance to pass up.” He waved a long slender twig in front of her nose. “You looked too peaceful lying there.”
“Oh, Benny!” Sarah’s voice shook. “You scared me to death. Where did you come from? I never even heard you come up.”
“Oh,” he returned flippantly, “you know how Indians can sneak through the grass.” He eyed her for a silent moment, then added, “You’ve grown some.”
“Well, one does that after a year’s time you know. And what,” she demanded, “have you been doing for a year, Benjamin Johnson?”
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I’ve been here and there, doing a bit of rodeoing, a bit of dancing, and so on. And what,” he returned, “have you been doing with yourself this year?”
“Oh,” Sarah faltered in embarrassment, “the same I do every year.”
“Do I detect a white lining inside—sort of like an … apple,” he mocked.
“Honestly, Benny!” she snapped. “You act so, so …” Sarah cast wildly about for the proper word, “Indian!” she finished lamely.
Benny grinned at her confusion. “Truce!” she cried holding up her arms in mock surrender. The uncomfortable moment passed, and soon Sarah found herself up to date on the happenings of her reservation friends. Ben had a quick wit and sense of humor. Several hours passed and shadows began to stretch across the prairie. The air carried a hint of the coolness of the oncoming desert night. Soon they began the walk back to the corral. Ahead of them moved the animals. In the still, nippy air Sarah shivered, and Benny draped his green sweater over her shoulders, laughing as the arms swallowed up her small hands. After several moments of silence, broken only by the calling of lamb to ewe, Benny glanced down at her.
“Sarah,” he began a little shyly. Sarah looked up in surprise at the serious note in his voice. Benny kicked at a clod of red clay with a boot, then, casting a rock high into the air, announced quickly, “My folks are throwing a squaw dance tomorrow night at our place.” He glanced down at the girl and asked, “Will you come?”
Sarah hesitated, caught between ready assent and nagging doubt. Some of Benny’s friends were not her friends. Sarah had watched with regret over the past few years as Benny began to fall in with some rough company. Word had come to her this year at school of some trouble that had concerned Benny and his friends. Word was they had been involved in drugs. Sarah had seen students in the city school with glassy eyes and slack mouths. Indoctrination from both sides of the drug question was intense, and Sarah had felt the pressure at times. Now as she eyed him, Sarah felt a pang of uncertainty. Benny’s friends would be at the dance and her friends were back in the city.
“I’ll try to be there,” Sarah offered in a low voice. The boy released a pent-up breath and kicked a rock in embarrassed delight. The flock bleated in alarm and moved as if to break ranks. Sarah could see the smoke from the Yazzie hogan rising against the darkening sky. She turned to Benny.
“I can take them on in from here,” she said softly. A silent moment, and then he said hurriedly, “I’d come for you tomorrow night, Sarah, but I’ll have to help with things. You will come, won’t you?”
The sheep were moving on toward the corral, and Sarah went after them. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll try.”
The hogan was warm. On the black, pot-bellied stove a pan of beans bubbled. A kerosene lamp threw shadows on the walls as Sarah sank down on a rickety chair and surveyed her family. Her brothers were engrossed in a game of marbles on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her mother sat vigorously carding the dirt and burrs from a pile of sheep’s wool at her feet. The dislodged dirt fell on the apron of her skirt. After a moment, she arose and began serving the evening meal of fry bread and beans. Sarah spoke softly to her mother as she, too, moved about the room, helping to dish the steaming beans into bowls. She spoke shyly of her visitor at the grazing grounds, and the mother listened with quiet interest. As Sarah talked of the invitation to the dance, a frown of concern crossed the older woman’s face. Sarah changed the subject quickly, wishing that she had not told Benny she would try to be there.
After the dishes were washed and stacked away in the small wooden cupboard, Sarah moved to a corner of the room, Placing the brown case on her lap she drew back the lid. There was a deep crimson scarf. Inside the scarf she found a note scribbled in childish letters. Her eyes watered as she read the short love note from her foster sister. In the bottom of the case lay another card. On the front of the card was the picture of a single white rosebud against a background of royal blue. Sarah turned it over, and written on the back in the neat printing of her foster mother were the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.” That was all; but to Sarah it spoke volumes. She could remember the night she had received this card. How proud she had been of her mother that evening. They had been invited to a mother-daughter dinner, and Sister Allen had been the featured speaker. Her stories of chastity, honesty, and loyalty had touched hearts, and at the end of the program, each girl received a single rosebud and the accompanying card.
Sarah pressed the card to her lips and felt a warmth within her. To Thine Own Self Be True. It had not been an easy doctrine to follow, but she had had friends with the same goals, and they had helped each other. The girl sat lost in her thoughts until the friendly squabbling of her brothers disturbed her.
Too soon the evening of the dance came, and Sarah could not still her doubts. Yet she found herself dressed and standing at the door of the hogan. Already the fires could be seen flickering in the distance, and the rhythmic beat of the drums and the sing-song of the chants floated across the summer air. She clutched her jacket and stepped out into the cool desert evening. She half-turned toward the lantern-lit hogan and, seeing her mother at the loom, forced a cheery wave, hurrying off toward the Johnson camp.
As Sarah neared the huge fire, she paused in sudden shyness. She searched the faces and found many familiar ones. A strong hand came from out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. She jumped nervously and swung around to find Benny grinning down at her. Her heart beat rapidly, half in alarm and half in wonder at the expression in his eyes. Ben drew her closer to the circle of his friends who greeted her. The dancing started, and Sarah found herself caught up in the beauty of the Navajo chants. Young and old alike joined in the round dances, and the rhythm of shuffling feet began to weave a spell around her.
Sarah and Ben danced silently together for a moment, then Ben said in a serious tone, “You’re the prettiest girl here tonight, Sarah—and the nicest.”
“You’re pretty nice yourself, Ben.” Sarah returned with a smile. “If only … ,” she stopped in confusion. The boy stopped dancing abruptly, causing Sarah to stumble against him.
“If only, what?” he demanded.
Sarah glanced over at the small group of his friends huddled together in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. She was saved from answering the question when one of the boys in the group called to Benny, “Hey, lover boy, come on over and bring your girl.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then took Sarah by the hand and pulled her over to the group. The circle moved apart, and Ben dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah down with him. She glanced around apprehensively. Several of her old girlfriends were there, and they had always been nice girls from good families. She relaxed a bit and took their teasing in good humor. They began their own chants, and the feeling of companionship grew. But Sarah realized that she had grown out of touch with many of her Indian friends, and she was surprised to see that they were maturing too. The girls were clean and dressed in style; the boys had lost their adolescent shyness. Leaning against Ben and listening to the group, Sarah wondered why she had felt such a reluctance to come. Maybe she had been too quick in labeling Benny’s new friends as roughs. She felt a quick flash of pride that they had accepted her so fast. She knew now that it was important to her that she remain their friend.
“Having a good time?” Benny asked softly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Sarah sighed. “It’s been such fun.” She leaned her head shyly on his shoulder and breathed deeply of the freshness of the night air.
Slowly Sarah became aware that Ben was nudging her with an elbow. “Here.” he whispered softly, thrusting a small, long object into her hand. The girl glanced down in surprise and saw that he held a cigarette in his hand. She looked up questioningly at Benny, but his attention was on the others in the group. Sarah became aware that each one in turn was lighting a cigarette, passing the match around until it sputtered out in someone’s fingers. She could smell the smoke from the lit cigarettes, and it carried a peculiarly sweet odor with it. Her new friends smiled encouragingly across the circle. Suddenly she realized that every eye was on her.
The match became a torch, telling her to catch hold of its fire. The odor was stronger now, overwhelming her with its sweetness. She reached for the match, wanting to be a part of this group, wanting desperately not to lose Ben’s friendship. It would be so easy, she reasoned. No one need ever know about this one time.
Sarah became dimly aware that a voice, quietly but clearly, was sounding in her head. The words took focus, and Sarah gasped as the match burnt her fingers. The voice whispered, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” She looked around in confusion and saw that her new friends were all watching her.
“No! I can’t!” she blurted, jumping to her feet. Sarah stood a moment, then turned and left the circle, stumbling in her haste. She realized she had probably forfeited her friendship with them all. She was sick that Benny had been a part of it.
Her hot cheeks began to cool as she said a silent prayer of thanks for her escape. She straightened her shoulders as a sense of returning strength came to her.
“If only Ben had not …” she began to herself but could not finish as she felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart.
“Sarah! Sarah!” The words came sharply over her shoulder, making her jump in alarm. She whirled to stare unbelievingly at Benny who stood grinning at her, panting a little from his run.
“I won’t go back, Ben,” she announced firmly.
“Who wants you to?” Ben returned tartly. “I’m coming with you,” he added in a gentler voice.
“But your friends?”
“You’re my friend, Sarah.” Then he added in a serious voice, “I’d very much like to be your friend, Sarah.” He waited quietly, ready to accept her answer, knowing it might be a refusal.
Sarah’s eyes began to shine, and she gave Ben a playful push. “I’ll be dull company,” she said teasingly.
Ben grinned as he recognized and accepted her answer. He reached over and gave her long hair a gentle tug. “I’ll get used to it.”
“C’mon,” Sarah laughed. “I’ll race you home.”

Asking God for our daily bread, rather than our weekly, monthly, or yearly bread, is also a way to focus us on the smaller, more manageable bits of a problem. To deal with something very big, we may need to work at it in small, daily bites. Sometimes all we can handle is one day (or even just part of one day) at a time. Let me give you a nonscriptural example.

In the 1950s my mother survived radical cancer surgery, but difficult as that was, the surgery was followed by dozens of painful radiation treatments in what would now be considered rather primitive medical conditions. She recalls that her mother taught her something during that time that has helped her ever since: “I was so sick and weak, and I said to her one day, ‘Oh, Mother, I can’t stand having 16 more of those treatments.’ She said, ‘Can you go today?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, honey, that’s all you have to do today.’ It has helped me many times when I remember to take one day or one thing at a time.”

When he was twenty-eight, Jacob married Magdelena Roschi, a lovely, cultured girl from his own village. Life was now a joyful experience for the young man, who was the principal of the high school he had attended. He was also honored by holding all of his late father’s offices, including auditor, assessor, and treasurer of Canton Bern, the second largest county in Switzerland.
In the late 1870’s, however, Jacob’s life took a drastic change. He heard the gospel, accepted it, and immediately faced persecution. He was forced to resign his position as principal, and was relieved of his county offices. But the worst shock came when Jacob’s father-in-law took Jacob’s wife and four small children from him.
Jacob felt that he should go to Zion, and in 1879 he emigrated to Logan, Utah. He led a lonely but diversified life for the next five years. He studied English and Church history, worked in sawmills, and laid track for the railroad. His sister in Switzerland, Anna Clara, forwarded his letters so he could keep in touch with his wife and children.
Those first years in America were difficult for Jacob. His daughter, Elizabeth Stowell, tells that he had a hard time adjusting to his new life and was often discouraged. But he never regretted having accepted the gospel.
In 1884 Elder Spori was called on a mission to Turkey. He arrived in Istanbul just a few days after Christmas and immediately began to proselyte. At first he needed an interpreter, but he had a unique talent with languages and in only three months had a good command of Turkish. He taught the gospel with strength and vigor. Using various methods to get his message into the homes of Turkish families, he taught French and English without charge and blessed the lives of many by teaching them the gospel. His students learned new languages, but they learned about the restored Church at the same time. Jacob also taught German but charged for this service to obtain funds for food and clothing.
In the summer of 1886 Elder Spori was called to go to Palestine. He was the first called specifically as a missionary to that country in this dispensation. Orson Hyde dedicated the land in 1841, but did not proselyte there. Elder Spori performed Palestine’s first baptism when he baptized Johan George Grau on 29 August 1886.
Elder Spori’s labors extended as far as Joppa, Damascus, and Jerusalem. It was here in the land of Palestine that he discovered how miracles can come about through small means.
By local law all Christians had to be out of the city of Haifa before the gates were locked at dusk. But Elder Spori was working in that city with an investigator who was ill at the time. The young Mormon elder hated to leave until he was sure his friend was better. That evening, with the investigator getting better, Jacob made plans to leave the city. He knew the gates were locked and that getting caught meant going to jail. As he walked along the city’s shore, pondering what to do, he watched the fishing boats coming into port. He noticed some men preparing the nets for the next day’s work and had the feeling he should help them. He stepped up and began working; no one seemed to notice him. When the work was finally done the men rolled up the nets, got into the small boat and prepared to set sail. Without a word Elder Spori also got into the boat. Before long they were on the sea. The next day the boat landed at Cairo, and Elder Spori jumped from the boat, went into the city, and resumed preaching the gospel.
After a mission of three and a half years, Elder Spori was released, and he returned to Switzerland. There he fulfilled an assignment from President Wilford Woodruff to help organize a company of Saints for their journey to Zion. It took him nearly a year to accomplish this.
Before his mission had ended, Elder Spori had received word from an almost inconsolable wife, still in Switzerland, that their eldest daughter, Katherine, had died from injuries received in a fall from a swing. Jacob, knowing well of the gospel’s ability to heal spiritual wounds, wrote his wife of the doctrines of the Church. She was touched by these new truths and became convinced the gospel was true.
Mrs. Spori applied for baptism and was reunited with her husband when he arrived in Switzerland following his missionary labors. She later bore fervent testimony and gave thanks for the eternal truths the gospel brought into her life.
Before leaving for Zion, Elder Spori translated several Church tracts into French. He was assisted by his youngest sister, Anna Clara Spori, a talented and well-educated young woman.
Finally, Jacob Spori and his wife and three children, Jacob, Magdalena, and Louise, and his sister Anna Clara left Bern for America. It was June, 1888. Their destination was Rexburg, Idaho. Jacob had been called to be the first principal of Ricks College, and the new school was getting ready to open.
Homes in Rexburg were scarce so the Spori family moved into an empty tithing granary. Their fifth child, Elizabeth, was born there 6 July 1888.
For the four years Jacob Spori was principal, he not only taught school, but was a friend of the families of the students. He would visit the homes of the Saints, especially when there was sickness there.
“At the time of the diphtheria epidemic in 1891,” his daughter recalls, “he went fearlessly to administer to the sick and comfort the bereaved.” Two of his daughters caught this dreaded disease, but he administered to them, believing they would be spared by the power of God. And they were.
After four years as academy principal Elder Spori asked for and received an honorable release from his work. He then turned to farming and began a project that was in later years a boon to agriculture in the area—he helped in the development of the canal on the Egin Bench, known as the Spori Canal.
Jacob Spori died in 1903—he was back teaching again, still doing the things he felt had to be done. His doctor had warned him that he suffered from diabetes and that he should stop working and rest more. Jacob’s reply was that he would rather “die working than die resting.”
Versatility and unwavering faith are two traits that characterize Jacob Spori’s life. He was a great educator, a student of languages, a missionary. He liked geology and mining, receiving his final degree in metallurgy when he was fifty years old. He became interested in medicine in Istanbul. Music was his great escape. He learned to play several different instruments. Science and agriculture were also parts of his life.
His life is well summarized in the words of his daughter: “He had such a burning testimony that he bore it whenever the opportunity presented itself. He used to tell us that nothing men can do will ever change the truthfulness of the gospel. All the seeming sacrifices he made seemed nothing to him compared with the peace and joy that came into his life when he joined the Church.”

In the early days of the Church, missionaries traveled without purse or scrip. That means they did not take with them any money or other usual items. Instead, they depended upon the Lord to furnish them with food, a place to sleep, and clothes to wear.
While my father was on his mission, he always had a place to sleep and plenty of food to eat. Once, however, he was discouraged because of his shabby appearance and the condition of his clothes. He had walked so far that his shoes had worn through; he had torn his coat and trousers; his shirt was ragged and faded; and low-hanging tree branches had poked holes in his hat. He prayed as he had never prayed before for the Lord to somehow help him get new clothing.
Soon afterward my father arrived in the town that was the county seat. When he went to pick up his mail, he found three letters waiting for him, each containing money. He also met two or three individuals who gave him money. So he went to the store and purchased the things he needed. As the clerk totaled the purchases, the bill came to exactly the amount of money he had received. Father always said, “This was truly an answer to prayer.”

I learned from a mission president recently that one of his young sister missionaries, nearing the end of her very faithful and successful mission, said through her tears that she must return home immediately. When he inquired as to the problem, she told him money had become so difficult for her family that to continue her support, the family had rented their home and were using the rental proceeds to pay her mission expenses. For living accommodations, they had moved into a storage locker. For water, they used a neighbor’s outdoor tap and hose; and for a bathroom they went to a nearby gasoline station. This family, in which the father had recently passed away, was so proud of their missionary and so independent in spirit that they had managed to keep this recent turn of events from most of their friends and virtually all of their Church leaders.

When this situation was discovered, the family was restored to their home immediately. Long-term solutions to their economic circumstances were put in place, and the complete amount of remaining missionary support for their missionary daughter was secured overnight. With her tears dried and fears allayed, this faithful, hardworking young sister finished her mission triumphantly and was recently married in the temple to a wonderful young man.

In those days of struggle for the Church in England, the missionaries took part in organized sports and choral singing, trying to create a new Church image. Elder Ashton decided to give both a try. “I don’t know how well I did in the ‘Millennial Chorus’ audition,” he chuckles. “They didn’t ask me to be the chorus.” But he was more successful in basketball. In fact, he was captain of the missionary team, the “Saints,” which won a grand national championship in Britain and an all-Europe championship at Lille, France.

I was 13 years old when I first saw the full-time missionaries. I was living apart from my family at the time, going to school in another town in the Philippines. One day while riding the bus, I saw two nicely dressed young men sitting near me. I didn’t know who they were, but I was impressed with what I assumed were their uniforms. For some reason, I wanted to wear one, too.

My father’s dying words impressed me so deeply that I did wear the “uniform” of a full-time missionary. I served in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.

A few years ago our family moved from a fast-paced, congested metropolitan area to a small, rural property outside a quiet little village. Nearby was an abandoned blueberry farm, and through friends of the owner, we obtained permission to pick all the blueberries we wanted.
Several mornings each week that summer we piled into the car with buckets and bags and spent a delightful, delicious hour gathering blueberries. One morning our youngest son, Hyrum, seemed reluctant to accompany us. He was sure we had picked every blueberry and that it would be a waste of time to go again. How surprised he was to find as many blueberries as ever. There were clusters in places he had overlooked, and some of the juiciest berries were growing on branches he was sure he had explored earlier.

Junior is already preparing for his. He has asked his mother to teach him how to cook and do his laundry and talked with his father about finances. Junior sees only one problem with missionary service. “I want my own room.” Why go on a mission and risk having a roommate? “Because I don’t want to be selfish to people who don’t know about the gospel. It will make them happy, and I want all the world to be happy.”

When I was around 10 years old, my mum was serving as a youth teacher in Oakland California Stake’s Oakland 8th Ward. One weekday evening, we were at our chapel for ward activities. Our Primary activity finished early, so I hung out in the recreation hall with my cousins and friends while I waited for mum, who was helping to run youth night.

We played tag and hide-and-seek, but there were so many of us kids, the hall was crowded. Some of the older kids wanted to go play outside because there was a lot more space out there, and also because outside was darker than in the hall (it was after 7:00 pm by now).

I wasn’t so sure about following them. I asked if we could keep playing inside, but my friends just said, “[We’ll] be fine outside. There’s a lot of us. It’s going to be okay.” Still, I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I decided to ask my mum for permission to play outside.

“No,” was mum’s reply. Even though I was uncomfortable about following my friends, I was still disappointed not to be allowed outside. We’d been having so much fun together. “Why can’t I go?” I asked. Mum’s only reasoning was that she didn’t want me playing in the dark where she couldn’t see me.

When I reluctantly told my friends to go ahead without me, it felt right. It was like the Spirit was confirming my mum’s warning, but that moment was immediately followed by one of weakness. It was hard watching my friends file out the hall door without me, so I jumped to my feet and ran with them, determined to disobey my mum.

Just as I reached the outside door of the chapel, I felt as if a hand was holding me back. I stopped and turned around, but no one was there to have held my hand. Stunned, I let the rest of my friends leave the chapel without me, and then I went back and sat by myself outside the classroom my mum was in.

In the 10 or 15 minutes that I waited for youth night to wrap up, I reviewed in my mind what had just happened. I was still upset that I wasn’t outside playing with my friends, but I kept thinking about the uneasy feeling I’d had since it was first suggested we leave the chapel, about my mom’s instruction for me to stay inside, and, of course, about the hand that held me back.

I remembered the brief sense of peace I’d felt when I first decided to obey my mum, and I realized that as I waited for her, I could feel the Spirit again, letting me know that I’d—again—made the right choice.

To this day, I have no idea why it was so important for me to stay in the chapel that night, and it doesn’t matter. I am just grateful for the Holy Spirit who guides and comforts us, even when we don’t understand, and I’m grateful that through my obedience, the Spirit allowed us to have a nice drive home after ward activities, without a lecture from my mum.

While I was at the area conference in Buenos Aires I met a young man who is the head of the Gillette Razor Company for the whole of South America. He set out as a boy to live the way the Lord wanted him to live, to magnify any office he held in the priesthood. He went from Argentina to BYU, where he became studentbody president. From there he went to work for the Gillette Company in the United States and has just been called to be the head of his company in the whole of South America. He translated for President Kimball in all of his talks while in the area conference.
He said to me how honored he was to be able to translate for a prophet. He told me what the gospel meant in his life and how it had prepared him for the work he is now doing.

During my last semester of college, I felt that I should start looking for a job in my field of study, which was education. I planned to work part-time as an elementary school teacher. By then, my children had already grown up.
To prepare to enter the workforce, I enrolled in one of the Church’s self-reliance courses to help me find a job. When I arrived for my first class, I was the only student there. The teacher was a gentleman with an American accent eager to serve others. During our lessons, he explained principles of the gospel that would help me develop faith in the Lord and act in faith.
It took me two hours to travel to the Church’s self-reliance center in São Paulo, but I showed up for class on time every week. I took the course seriously because it was important to me.
At the end of the course, however, I couldn’t find a teaching job. Nevertheless, I told my instructor that I was confident the Lord would bless me and that it wouldn’t take me long to find work. I studied for the tests I needed to take in order to compete for a schoolteacher position, and I started attending a self-reliance course on how to start a business.
Immediately after I took the tests, I hurried to my stake self-reliance class. I told everyone there how prepared I had felt for the tests—thanks to my studies and my self-reliance courses.
Finally, I got the job I wanted. I felt immense happiness, and I was grateful to be able to pay tithing and offerings to the Lord. During my second self-reliance course, the Spirit prompted me to take EnglishConnect 2 and begin postgraduate work.
I felt greatly blessed by this guidance from the Lord in making such important decisions in my life. I know He keeps His promises and that if we keep His commandments, He will bless us temporally and spiritually with the things we need to prosper (see Mosiah 2:41).

When I was six years old, my mother took me to the groundbreaking service for our new chapel in Santa Monica, California. As we arrived, Mother noticed that I had brought the small sand shovel that I usually took on our family outings to the beach. I had hoped that I could help by digging some ground at the chapel site. They let me use my shovel that first day, and my faith was increased because I helped to build a church for our Heavenly Father. My, how good I felt! The seeds of service and faith were planted in my heart. It is my wish to keep that same feeling of faith and desire to serve that I had as a six-year-old child.

Nicole’s mother encourages Nicole’s journal-writing habit. When Sister Igor was young, she wrote in a journal too. Unfortunately, she lost it when she moved to Santiago and got married.
“I was really sad to lose it,” Sister Igor says. “That was my life, everything that had happened to me. It was a personal treasure beyond price.”
So when Nicole’s older brother, Boris, was born, Sister Igor started over. She wrote about what she was thinking and feeling as first Boris and then Nicole were born.
Now Boris and Nicole enjoy reading about their mom. “It helps me understand what my mom has gone through,” Nicole says. She hopes her own children will learn about her the same way.

Greg hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. We all hushed up as if we were waiting for an important news bulletin. “We’re going down the block to do some painting.”
“Huh?” I stared at him. “You mean work?”
“Mark, don’t be so dumb.” He held up a can of black spray paint. “I ‘found’ it in the hardware store.”
We laughed. That meant that Greg had stolen the paint. I felt kind of funny in the stomach. I really didn’t like the idea. But I was new in the neighborhood. If I said anything, the other guys wouldn’t be my friends.
Greg led us to a house with a wooden fence around the backyard. He handed the paint to Sam.
“Wait a minute,” I blurted out.
Greg cuffed me on the side of the head. “Are you chicken?”
I snorted. “Me? Of course not.”
When Greg wasn’t looking, I rubbed my head where he had hit me. It hurt. He’s a year older than I am, and a lot bigger.
After Sam finished painting words on the fence, Greg and a couple of other kids took their turns. Then someone handed the can to me. I took a deep breath and pushed the button on the can. Black paint sprayed out.
“Hey!” The shout came from an unseen person.
We took off running. Then I tripped. I jumped up, but someone grabbed my arm. My heart rate speeded up so much that I thought I would either faint or get sick all over my new sneakers.
I peeked up at a gray-haired man wearing glasses. “What were you doing?” he asked, not loosening his grip any.
“I don’t know,” I said, though it sounded silly.
“Who gave you the right to vandalize my property?”
“Uh, I’m sorry. Are you going to call the police?” I asked. My voice shook like I was going to cry.
“I believe I’d rather keep this between me and your parents.”
I took a shaky breath, then told him my name and phone number. But I would rather have gone to jail than have my parents know what I had done.
Dad came over right away. He looked as though he couldn’t decide whether he was more hurt or more angry at what I had done. I kind of shrunk down inside my shirt.
“Mark will pay for all damages, Mr. Parker,” Dad said.
I gulped hard. My allowance doesn’t cover half the stuff I want to buy. I figured that it would take a big part of my childhood years to pay for repainting that fence.
“I believe I have a better idea,” Mr. Parker said. “I had planned to repaint it, anyway. How about if I buy the paint and Mark does the painting?”
I sagged with relief. I wasn’t looking forward to the work, but painting the fence was a lot better than paying for damages.
I wouldn’t have been so happy if I’d known what else was in store for me at home—Mom and Dad said I couldn’t go anywhere with my friends for six weeks!
“Hurting others is against the word of God,” Mr. Parker said when I went over to his place. He handed me a brush.
I shrugged. “I know.”
“You sure didn’t act like it when you worked my fence over.”
I turned away and carefully drew the brush out of the paint can. I took my time making my first brush stroke nice and neat. I figured that if Mr. Parker saw that I could do a good job all by myself, he would leave me alone.
Mr. Parker didn’t take the hint. In fact, he got a brush of his own and started painting too.
My hand shook. I dribbled paint onto my pants leg.
“Careful,” Mr. Parker said.
“I can’t help it—you make me nervous!” I blurted. I dug the toe of my sneaker into the ground.
“I do? Now, why is that?”
“You keep watching me as if I’m bad or something.”
“Is that so? Well, I know you’re not bad, or you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I never did anything like that before. But Greg said …” I stopped and looked away quickly. I hadn’t meant to mention anyone else.
Mr. Parker chuckled softly. “Greg must be one of the other young fellows I saw running away that day.”
“You saw them?”
“I sure did.”
“You didn’t even ask me to tell you who they were.”
“I was a boy once myself.” Mr. Parker winked at me.
I felt a knot ease out of my shoulders. Mr. Parker was turning out to be a lot nicer than I’d figured.
We started painting again. After a while he said, “Do you ever go to church?”
“We used to.”
“I’m going to ask your folks to come with me on Sunday.”
“They’re pretty busy.”
“We’ll let them decide. I think your parents will welcome the chance for you to meet the right kind of friends.”
My face turned warm. I leaned over and concentrated on my painting. “I have friends,” I mumbled.
“Sure you do, son.”
Mr. Parker didn’t say anything else. I expected him to start preaching and tell me how bad my friends were—how they were not only a bad influence, but how they ran off and left me. I was all set to get mad and tell him my friends were great.
But all he did was start whistling. I recognized the tune—it was a hymn.
My parents were eager to take Mr. Parker up on his church offer. I told myself that it didn’t matter—at least I had somewhere else to go for the next six weeks. I couldn’t wait until my grounding was over and I could see Greg and the other boys again.
The only thing was, I got busy with the kids from Primary. By the time the six weeks were up, I was involved in a ward project to get books for a shelter for the homeless. After that, we Blazers all got parts in a play that we were going to put on at the care center.
The next time I saw Greg, he was leading his gang past the park. He stopped suddenly, and everyone piled into the back of him. They reminded me of robots playing follow the leader.
“Mark, I haven’t seen you around.”
“I … uh … I’ve been busy.” I felt a familiar shrinking in my stomach. Funny, I’d never realized it before, but I always felt that way around Greg.
“Yeah, I heard you were busy painting old man Parker’s fence.”
Greg and the robots cracked up. I clenched my fists.
“Come on—we’re doing something fun.” Greg held up a cloth sack.
I knew that they planned to steal oranges from Mr. McKellar’s grove. Six weeks ago I would have stumbled over my own feet rushing to join them. Now all I felt was sorry for them.
“No, thanks.” I turned and walked away. I had new friends now. My kind of friends. The shrinking in my stomach disappeared. It didn’t come back.

Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, we were invited to participate in a radio talk show. The purpose of the show was to describe and discuss the different religions of the world. Two of us were assigned to represent the Church in responding to questions that might be asked during this type of a program. After several commercial breaks, as they say in radio parlance, the program director made this comment: “We have with us this evening two elders from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He paused and then asked, “Why does the Church have such a long name? Why don’t you use a shorter or more commercial name?”
My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior through a prophet in these latter days: “For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (D&C 115:4). The program director immediately and respectfully responded, “We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.” Now, I cannot remember how many times he repeated the significant name of the Church, but I do remember the sweet spirit that was present when we explained not only the name of the Church but also how it makes reference to the members of the Church—the Latter-day Saints.

Fifty-one years ago I heard William J. Critchlow Jr., then president of the South Ogden Stake who would later become an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, speak to the brethren of the general priesthood session of conference and retell a story concerning trust, honor, and duty. May I share the story with you. Its simple lesson applies to us today, as it did then.
“[Young] Rupert stood by the side of the road watching an unusual number of people hurry past. At length he recognized a friend. ‘Where are all of you going in such a hurry?’ he asked.
“The friend paused. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said.
“‘I’ve heard nothing,’ Rupert answered.
“‘Well,’ continued [the] friend, ‘the King has lost his royal emerald! Yesterday he attended a wedding of the nobility and wore the emerald on the slender golden chain around his neck. In some way the emerald became loosened from the chain. Everyone is searching, for the King has offered a reward … to the one who finds it. Come, we must hurry.’
“‘But I cannot go without asking Grandmother,’ faltered Rupert.
“‘Then I cannot wait. I want to find the emerald,’ replied his friend.
“Rupert hurried back to the cabin at the edge of the woods to seek his grandmother’s permission. ‘If I could find it we could leave this hut with its dampness and buy a piece of land up on the hillside,’ he pleaded with Grandmother.
“But his grandmother shook her head. ‘What would the sheep do?’ she asked. ‘Already they are restless in the pen, waiting to be taken to the pasture, and please do not forget to take them to water when the sun shines high in the heavens.’
“Sorrowfully, Rupert took the sheep to the pasture, and at noon he led them to the brook in the woods. There he sat on a large stone by the stream. ‘If I could only have had a chance to look for the King’s emerald!’ he thought. Turning his head to gaze down at the sandy bottom of the brook, suddenly he stared into the water. What was it? It could not be! He leaped into the water, and his gripping fingers held something that was green with a slender bit of gold chain [that had been broken]. ‘The King’s emerald!’ he shouted. ‘It must have been flung from the chain when the King [astride his horse galloped across the bridge spanning the stream and the current carried] it here.’
“With shining eyes Rupert ran to his grandmother’s hut to tell her of his great find. ‘Bless you, my boy,’ she said, ‘but you never would have found it if you had not been doing your duty, herding the sheep.’ And Rupert knew that this was the truth.” (In Conference Report, Oct. 1955, 86; paragraphing, capitalization, and punctuation altered.)
The lesson to be learned from this story is found in the familiar couplet: “Do [your] duty; that is best; Leave unto [the] Lord the rest!” (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Legend Beautiful,” in The Complete Poetical Works of Longfellow [1893], 258).

Sister Hughes says that the words of the scriptures, together with her knowledge that she is a daughter of God, have anchored her and helped her find peace, even during the difficult periods of her life. Once, for example, while she was struggling with what may have been postpartum depression, she and her husband visited Liberty Jail in Missouri. They reviewed the Prophet Joseph Smith’s experience there and read the revelation he received, which is recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 121. Sister Hughes realized that just as the Lord had sustained Joseph Smith, He would help her endure her own trials. “It was one of those times you remember—a defining moment when I sensed the presence of the Lord in my life and realized what the scriptures can do to bring comfort and peace,” she says.

At Christmas time Cynthia, Richard, Gerald, Mom, and Dad went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The children helped set up the stable like the one where Baby Jesus was born, sang Christmas carols, and opened presents.
A few days after Christmas Dad said, “It’s time to go home.”
Grandpa and Grandma looked sad.
“Mommy,” Cynthia said, “why are Grandma and Grandpa so sad?”
“Because they will miss us when we go home.”
Cynthia went to find Grandma, who was helping Gerald pack his clothes.
“Grandma,” Cynthia said, “will you be happy if I leave some of my toys? You can play with them till we come back.”
“Thank you, honey,” said Grandma, “I will miss you, not your toys.” She gave Cynthia a big hug.
Cynthia wondered how she could help Grandma and Grandpa be happy. Suddenly she remembered how happy Dad was when Mom put notes in his lunch sack. She ran and whispered to Gerald and Richard and gave them each some pieces of paper. Richard sat on the floor and wrote and wrote and wrote. Gerald drew pictures because he was too little to write.
“Mommy,” said Cynthia, “how do you spell love?”
“L-o-v-e,” Mom told her.
When Cynthia finished writing, she tiptoed into the living room. She hid one of her notes on Grandpa’s chair. She put another note in the piano bench. She even put two in Grandma’s slippers under the couch. Then she tiptoed quietly out.
Richard waited in the hall until Grandpa left the kitchen. Then he scurried in and put one note in the cracker box, one on top of the forks, and one in an apron pocket. He also put notes in the refrigerator and the pantry.
Meanwhile, Gerald was in Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom. He put all his picture-notes under their pillows for them to find when they went to bed.
Soon Dad and Mom were bundling them into their coats. “Kiss Grandma and Grandpa good-bye and get in the car!” said Dad.
Grandpa kept saying, “I’m going to miss all of you. I’m really going to miss you!” He looked like he was already missing them, and they hadn’t even gone yet!
Grandma kissed all the kids and Mom and Dad too. “Remember to write me,” she told them.
Cynthia, Richard, and Gerald started to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” asked Grandma.
“You’ll see,” Cynthia told her, grinning from ear to ear. “We left love notes for you all over the house.”