Gospel Story Finder

England was a busy place in the early 1800s, but John Taylor liked the exciting atmosphere of this country where his family had their farm. John worked many hours on the farm, and he also learned the skill of wood turning.
When he was twenty-four years old, John had the opportunity to migrate to Canada to join his family, who had moved there two years before.
Before John’s ship left the English Channel, however, there was a horrible storm. Many people on the ship got sick as the storm tossed the ship from side to side.
Ships all around John’s were being destroyed by the storm, and the officers and crew of his ship prepared for the worst.
But John wasn’t worried. He even walked calmly around the deck at midnight during the raging storm! He knew that he had a work to do in Canada, and he trusted Heavenly Father to protect him so that he could do that work.
After John reached Toronto, Canada, he located the Methodist Church, where he became a member and a preacher. In May of 1836, Parley P. Pratt taught him about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and John was baptized into the Church.
John Taylor continued to trust in the Lord, and he became the third President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

On William’s 21st birthday, May 1, 1858, he and the crew received shore leave in Honolulu. William heard prior to leaving Britain that President Brigham Young had sent missionaries to the Pacific islands, so the young convert tried to locate some Saints “but could find no record of them.” Unknown to him the Church had called home its Pacific missionaries to help defend Zion, if necessary, against a United States army then marching toward Utah. Ironically the last elders working in Hawaii left the islands the very day that William landed in Honolulu.

The seaman, an isolated Mormon cut off from contact with the Church, continued to nourish his faith by himself. He read and reread the “works of the Church” that he had brought along. A priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, he was “posted in regard to the authority of a priest to administer the sacrament,” so he felt justified in holding his own private sacrament service in his “beef house” aboard ship. “I prayed often, to the Lord,” he said, “and asked Him to acknowledge me in the administration.” On Sundays, after the ship’s religious service, William returned to his room where “I would place the hardtack [ship’s bread] and water upon a table and then offer prayer, after which I would ask the blessing upon the bread and water and partake of it. In this way I received much spiritual strength.”

A few years ago, President Nelson came to my homeland in Puerto Rico. This was a great blessing. I had always wanted to see him. And I wanted the chance to meet him face to face. My mom said it would be hard because a lot of people would be in the meeting. I still had faith, and I prayed a lot to be able to meet him.
During his talk, I wrote him a quick letter. I had hope and faith that I would be able to give him my letter. After the talks ended, I tried to walk closer. He saw my little brother and came over to him with a big smile. Then he shook my hand! He told me, “You will be a great missionary.” I will always remember his words.

All too soon the finale arrived. All of the performers rushed out onto the floor of the coliseum. A rainbow of talented youth whirled, and waved small green and gold flags, and danced their hearts out. They were answered with an ovation from those in attendance, but they were not quite through with the evening’s program. There was one more thing they wanted to do.
And there, standing before the capacity audience, the 2,000 colorfully costumed young dancers stood and sang from their hearts, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet To guide us in these latter days.” As the hymn continued, the lights in the house were lowered, and a single spot shone on an elderly, white-haired gentleman in the audience. He rose to his feet and smiled his acknowledgment.
Then, with whoops and cheers, the dancers ran from the floor. The evening was over, and after several minutes of applause, the appreciative audience stood and started filing out. One nonmember remarked to his wife as they stepped out into the cool evening air, “I wonder who that gentleman in the spotlight was? Those young kids certainly seem to love him.” A festival participant who had hurried into the departing crowd to listen for comments and answer questions heard the statement and replied with quiet conviction, “He’s a prophet of God, sir.”

Probably all of us have had experiences when we really needed someone to help us. I remember once as a small boy I surely did. While playing on a mountainside near our home, I fell into the middle of a huge, prickly cactus plant. Oh, did it hurt! The prickly spines of the cactus went through my sneakers, through my stockings, through my trousers, through my shirt—they went through everything! I felt like a human dart board.
Immediately I let out a cry that was loud enough to shake the mountains. I couldn’t move up, down, in, or out. Every movement I made seemed to send those needles deeper and deeper into my skin. I just stayed there and howled.
I was five years old at the time and my older brother, who immediately rushed to my rescue, was eight. He was overwhelmed at the sight of me and the complexity of my plight. Nevertheless, he began to pull out some of the spines, but they seemed to hurt more coming out than going in and I howled even louder. Furthermore, the pin-size wounds bled so when the spines were removed that after a few minutes I looked like an advertisement for Red Cross donations.
Finally my brother saw that his feeble plucking was hopeless. There were dozens of spines yet to pull, and I was still screaming at the top of my lungs. He did the only thing an eight-year-old brother could do. He ran down the mountain, got his small red wagon, and labored painfully to get it up the side of the hill to where I was awaiting death—I thought. With some tugging and hauling and lifting—and plenty of noise from me—he got me out of the cactus and into the wagon. Then in some miraculous way, known only to children and Providence, he navigated me down off that steep mountain in his wagon.
The rest of the story is blurred in my memory. As I recall, my mother got me out of my clothes and the rest of the prickly spines out of me. What I do remember clearly and will never forget is the sight of my brother tugging that wagon and determinedly making his way toward me. He was so concerned that he worked wonderfully hard to get to me. If I live to be one hundred, I suppose no memory of my brother will be more vivid than the view I had of him that day. I needed him desperately. And there he was, coming to help!

A year after Carlos joined the Church, he and María decided their house was too small for their growing family. So Carlos designed and built a new, larger home. It is beautiful and spacious—with lots of room for children and friends. Nathalia is practicing the piano in the living room. Verónica is doing homework at the dining room table. Marcelo is outside playing with Alfie, their cocker spaniel. And Sandra and Andrea are giving their dolls a party. Guests are treated like family here. A barbecue, a covered patio, a trampoline, and a swimming pool are out back. The garden is full of vegetables, pineapples, and sugar cane. And the trees are heavy with fruit: bananas, oranges, guavas, avocados, and mangos.

Carlos dedicated their home when it was finished. “A spirit of love and happiness reigns here,” he says. “We’re trying to comply with what the Lord wants. And all these things have been added to us, just as the scriptures say.

“These are really unimaginable blessings,” he says. He shudders when he realizes how close he came to losing—or giving up—everything. “I have no time for my social clubs now. Instead, we have our family gatherings. And I give most of my time to the Lord. While I’m driving, I’m thinking about the members of the stake and their problems. There’s lots to do. I wasted forty years of my life. Now I need to give Him my time.”

“Carlos is the best member of the Church I know,” says Sister Roig. “He magnifies his callings, he loves the gospel, and he’s the greatest defender I know of Jesus Christ and Joseph Smith.”

William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew but became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk slung over his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over Rhysog Mountain? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair with a bit of wave in it. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair with a bit of wave in it, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved the most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away two of my sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my sons’ letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from son number two read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a 12-year-old cannot stay sad very long. “Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a bit of wave.”

Every December, the youth of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake, put on an amazing Christmas party. They decorate with beautiful lights, have a delicious dinner, make Christmas goodies, and receive hundreds of gifts.
Sound fun? It is, because none of it is for the teens themselves. They give it all away.
For nine years, the youth have put on a Christmas party at their ward building for elementary school students—about 50 children each year—from local low-income areas. The event includes a variety of themed rooms designed to make the children’s Christmas unforgettable.
In the Bethlehem room, children learn about the birth of the Savior as they dress up and act out the Nativity while reading the story from Luke.
In the Santa Claus room, they get their picture taken while receiving their own fleece blankets made by the youth. The children also choose a box full of home-baked treats to give to their families. Their teenage “buddy” for the evening also reads them their favorite Christmas story.
And then there’s a stop at the North Pole Diner for a scrumptious Christmas dinner.
As wonderful as each of these rooms is, they’re not what make this party so extraordinary. The big event happens in the cultural hall. When the children enter this area, their eyes get really big, and exclamations of “Wow!” fill the air. Some of the little ones even jump up and down with anticipation. For there before them is a “store,” just like the big stores downtown, full of hundreds of donated gifts.
But, like the youth of the ward who choose to give their Christmas party away each year, the children aren’t excited to pick these gifts for themselves. They are overjoyed because this is the first time for most of them to be able to get Christmas gifts for their family. “The best part of Christmas is giving, and this gives the kids the chance to experience the joy of giving themselves,” says Tiffany Thompson, 15.
At the end of the evening, adult volunteers from the ward drive the children home with bags full of gifts, treats, and a ham and other food items their parents can use to make a wonderful Christmas dinner. “It touches your heart to see kids who otherwise would not have anything to give to their families be able to give them so much,” says Valen Campbell, 17, who co-chaired this year’s party.
The giving doesn’t stop there. Even after the hundreds of hours of combined effort involved in putting on this service activity, youth of the ward say they are the ones who receive. “The children serve us, because they teach us about being selfless,” says 17-year-old Whitney Drage, the event’s other co-chair. “If there are gifts left over at the end, we let the children pick a gift for themselves. One year a little 8-year-old girl asked me, ‘Instead of getting a gift for myself, could I just choose another one for my sister?’”
Becca Nelson, 14, adds, “It brings us the true meaning of Christmas: Christlike service. These kids are such an example of that. They hardly want anything for themselves, only for their families.”
The project also brings unity to the youth, the ward, and even the community. Ward members and members of other faiths help serve the Christmas dinner, donate food and gifts, and transport the children to and from the party. “It brings everyone closer because it takes everyone to make it work,” says Valen.
Perhaps these are the reasons the youth keep putting on this party year after year. “We had one year when we thought we’d do something else, but there was a ‘revolt,’” Bishop Gerreld Pulsipher says with a smile. “The youth and ward really look forward to giving this service.”
George Theodore, the counselor and social worker at the children’s school, adds, “This will be a Christmas these kids will never forget. When you’re not used to having something so special, the memory always stays in your heart. I think these kids will in turn give to others someday when they have a little extra to give.”

Then something happened to make me think again about the whole situation. I was giving a lot of time each week to my Primary assignment, but I gave much more to my own three preschoolers. They, too, were a trial, a joy, and a challenge. It seemed so good to have Sarah, our shy, bright, keen four-and-a-half-year-old finally enjoying a preschool nursery: (Nursery class held in the United States three or more times a week for children 4 years of age—prior to kindergarten which they begin at 5 years of age, and 1st grade at the age of 6.) How grateful I was to Sarah’s teacher, who had given her the extra love and attention she had needed to put her at ease. I was looking forward to the time when Clark, our rambunctious, two-and-a-half-year-old, could go to his own Sunday School class (this was pre-consolidation) and just leave me with Rachel, our year-old babbler, on Sunday mornings.
It thrilled me one Sunday when my husband came home from priesthood meeting and described the enthusiasm of our newly assigned home teachers. Brother Bowen had already asked him when they should come, what challenges our family needed, and what lessons we wanted presented to the children. You can tell he’s been a bishop, I thought. He really knows what home teaching is all about.
I tried to prepare the children, having them memorize the name of Brother Bowen, who had just moved into our ward, and explaining that he was a special friend who would come to our home to help us and teach us the things we needed to know to be good Church members.
But as it usually happens the children got a virus disease that next week. Sarah was not really sick, but she was very tired and irritable. She fell asleep on a soft chair right after dinner and when the doorbell rang, she ran with her brother to the door, still not fully awake. When Sarah faced Brother Bowen and his companion, total strangers to her, she ran sobbing from the room. Her father hurried to comfort her, leaving me and the two youngest to greet the astonished visitors.
“She was in a sound sleep when you rang,” I explained, embarrassed. “She hasn’t been well. Really, this is not very typical behavior.” Our new home teachers were kind and understanding that night, but I had so eagerly looked forward to this visit that I felt really disappointed.
I said nothing about it to Sarah until the Sunday before the next scheduled visit, when I pointed out that our home teacher was giving the opening prayer and that he’d visit us again. Thursday arrived and the doorbell rang at precisely seven. This time Clark and Rachel ran to the door; Sarah stayed behind in the kitchen.
“Jim, invite them in,” I whispered to my husband. “I’ll see if I can talk Sarah into coming.”
“Here, Sarah,” I said. “Why don’t you go show Brother Bowen and Pat the kite that you made in nursery school today?” I handed her the colorful triangle from the bulletin board.
“No, I don’t want to,” she said, setting it down. I’ll just stay here and color.”
“Please, come in with the family. You can sit on my lap.”
“No, I don’t want to.”
“Come with me,” I insisted, gently but firmly picking her up and carrying her into the living room where the others were already seated.
“Hi, Sarah, how are you tonight?” Brother Bowen greeted her warmly, extending his hand. She turned her head and buried it in my shoulder. “I have a special lesson for you and Clark tonight,” Brother Bowen continued cheerfully, sitting on the floor. “Come sit down by me and tell me what this is a picture of.”
“Curious, Sarah peeked out at the large picture of children sitting reverently that he pulled from a pile. I quickly slid to the floor, still holding her on my lap.
“Boy and girl,” spoke up Clark.
“That’s right, young man,” said Brother Bowen in delight. “And what are they doing?”
They’re standing on their heads,” answered Sarah mischievously.
“Folding arms,” answered Clark, folding his own.
“Great,” praised Brother Bowen. “And why are they being quiet? Whose house are they in?”
“In Santa Claus,” said Sarah, and I blushed at her deliberate wrong answers. She’s acting just like my Primary boys, I thought, deliberately giving all the wrong answers.
At the end of the lesson on reverence and the family prayer, Brother Bowen pulled a candy bar decorated with ribbons out of his pocket. “Here, Sarah. I brought you a little treat to share with your brother and sister.”
I saw the look of longing in Sarah’s eyes but she shook her head. “Give it to Clark,” she answered feeling delight in her defiance even though she wanted it.
“Thank you,” spoke up Clark, reaching out his hand.
“He’s really smart, isn’t he?” Brother Bowen commented to me.
“Yes, they all are,” I defensively replied. As the home teachers left and Jim took the children into the kitchen to divide the candy bar, I stood looking at the closed door, tears in my eyes. “Please God, don’t let him give up on her.” I prayed silently. “I know she has acted terribly, but she can be so good, so sweet. Please help him to be patient and loving with her.”
Suddenly those six little Primary faces, so naughty for the first four weeks, appeared in my mind. “Oh my,” I gasped in a sudden understanding of my stewardship. “How many of their mothers must have offered this same prayer just last September?” My determination to be patient and creative with those I teach has not faltered since.

A tree-lined road still follows the curves of the Mississippi River as it winds to the small town of Nauvoo. With a little more than a thousand residents, Nauvoo is so small and quiet that it often gets left off road maps. But with the temple construction, more attention is focused on Nauvoo, and the temple’s construction workers and their families have increased the number of Church members.
Lisa and Joanne Church are new Nauvoo residents. Their father is the temple engineer. They have a strong connection to both this temple and the one built last century. “My great-great grandpa Hayden Wells Church left his home in Tennessee and came to Nauvoo,” says Lisa, 17. “He heard the missionaries sing and was so impressed.”
“He came here and was baptized by the Prophet Joseph,” adds Joanne, 14. “It was hard for him to leave his home behind and come to Nauvoo. He’s such an example to me. His testimony made me want to come here and see the things he saw and share the feelings he felt.”
Ashlie Wilson also gets to share the feeling of one of her ancestors working on the temple, only this ancestor, her grandfather Charles Allen, is alive and well and working on the windows of the temple, including the unique red and blue star windows similar to those in the original temple. Ashlie was there when her grandfather was notified that he would be creating the windows. “I stood there when he told my grandma that he had the window contract. He said he felt so honored, yet humbled, at the job. Then he started to cry. I’d never seen my grandpa cry before.”

“Here you go, Tam? (Dad),” Tom said softly. Tom’s father slowly sat up on his sleeping mat. Tom helped him sip some fresh coconut juice.
Tam? and the rest of Tom’s family had been sick for days. Almost everyone else in the village was sick too. A pandemic had come to the island—the Spanish flu.
Tom walked outside. He was one of the only people who was well enough to take care of the others. And many families needed help.
I need more coconut juice, Tom thought. He climbed up a tall coconut tree. When he got to the top, he picked some coconuts and tossed them to the ground.
As he climbed down, Tom thought about the people in his village. It was scary to see so many of them sick.
Tom knew God had helped them then. And he knew God would help them now.
Tom cut the coconuts open. The sweet smell of coconut juice made him feel a little better. He walked to the next house in the village to share some juice with his neighbors. Then he went to the next house. And the next.
Weeks passed. Each day Tom worked hard to take care of everyone. He caught chickens so he could make warm soup to share. He carried buckets of water from the spring for people to drink.
Some of the people in the village died. Tam? died too. It was really hard for Tom. The whole village was sad. But through it all, Tom remembered that God loved him and would help him.
Tom didn’t stop helping people. And after a while, people started to get better!
Eventually the flu pandemic ended. People stopped getting sick. Tom and Ailama were even able to go to school again. Tom always missed Tam?. But he knew someday he would see his dad again. And he knew that Heavenly Father would always be there to help him.

Sometimes temptation to let down her standards can be almost overwhelming, especially when a cherished goal comes in sight. Like the time Jenny was invited to meet with well-known disk jockeys from a major radio station—on a Sunday.
She wanted so much to be there, supporting her hospital team and meeting influential people, possibly improving her career opportunities. Workmates kept pressuring her to go. But she refused, at the same time explaining her feelings for the Sabbath.
“I felt awful letting them down,” she says, “but I’d have felt even more awful letting myself and Heavenly Father down—and my workmates, too, because eventually they would have seen me as a bad example.”

Last year in school, there was a new kid named Ricky. He had moved into our neighborhood and was starting school in America for the first time. Our teacher asked me and two other kids if we would help him learn English.
Every day the four of us would sit down and review words on flashcards and talk with him. At recess I invited Ricky to play with me and my friends. He liked playing kickball. After a while I asked Ricky if he wanted to play soccer too, and he said yes. So he started playing soccer with me and all my friends at recess.
We became good friends, and he came to my house after school a few times. Ricky is really good at math. He helped me with my math assignments. I have gotten better at math because of our friendship. Now after a year and a half, he speaks English very well. He’s able to help his mom communicate with others when she does her errands.
This year Ricky isn’t in my class, but we play together at recess every day. I really like being friends with Ricky. I learned that by helping others, I am serving Heavenly Father and am also blessed by serving others. Ricky has helped me in ways I didn’t know he could when I was asked to help him learn English.
I know that we need to be willing to do all we can to help our family members and friends. When we do this, we’re helping Heavenly Father and we will have good experiences. We are Heavenly Father’s hands on earth, and when we’re willing to help, we’ll be able to help those that Heavenly Father needs us to help.

In Nevada, USA, at a Boy Scout board of review for an Eagle Scout award, one young man made quite an impression. It wasn’t because of his achievements as a Scout. They were impressive, of course, but that’s what the men on the board of review expect of someone who has come that far in Scouting. No, it was something else that stood out—something that was missing.
One of the reviewers looked at this young man’s record and noticed that there was a three-year gap between his last rank advancement and his Eagle Scout board of review. He asked the young man what had happened.
The young man paused for a moment and then explained that shortly after he had received his Life Scout rank, his sister had died. In their grief, his family had drifted away from activity in the Church, and he had stopped participating in Scouts as well.
Taken off-guard by the young man’s straightforward answer, the reviewer then asked what had changed to make him so fully active today. The man almost cried when he heard the response.
“The guys came and got me.”
That was all. It was that simple.
The other members of his priests quorum had started visiting him at home and talking to him at school, asking him to come back and join with them. The young man said he could tell that they cared about him, and he felt good when he was with them.
So he had decided to come back.
Sitting in that board of review, this young man expressed gratitude that his quorum had not forgotten him and had gone out of their way to bring him back. They had even pushed him to complete his Eagle Scout project. Now he wanted to give back by helping and serving them too.
This young man was now on the path to receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood, receiving his temple endowment, and serving a full-time mission.
All because “the guys came and got me.”

In 1962, during my missionary labors in Geneva, Switzerland, my companion and I were giving a missionary discussion to a man one evening. One of the major points of our discussion concerned the nature of God—that he is a physical being, in whose image we were created. Our host was fascinated by this concept and accepted it almost immediately. Our discussion was interrupted several times as his mind reflected on the doctrine and its many implications.
That experience was repeated many times on my mission and a number of times since. It is, in fact, an experience many missionaries have. Most Christian and Jewish sects believe in a God who is a spirit, devoid of passions and without form or body, who fills the universe and yet is not a part of it. Yet despite these official beliefs, our missionaries sometimes find that the “difficulty” in discussing the Godhead with other people is that they often agree so readily with the Latter-day Saint concept of God. Frequently, they are totally ignorant of their own churches’ teachings about God, and therefore do not see the necessity of the discussion. Their concept of God, it seems, comes from a reading of the Bible, together with basic logic.
This logic, however, can sometimes carry a person too far. It is only a few steps from the concept of a God with a physical body to that of a God lacking divine powers. This was the situation some years ago when it was proposed that God is a mere “spaceman” from another planet, whose fantastic space vehicle and other devices amazed the early Israelites and others. According to this scheme, there is no Creator, no divine plan, no Fall, and, of course, no Redemption.
We should be thankful, then, that the restored gospel, in harmony with the Bible, teaches us the true nature of our Father in Heaven, who loves us and wants us to become like him.
A few years ago as I was leaving Temple Square in Salt Lake City after a general conference session, I encountered a small group of people handing out anti-Mormon pamphlets. The leader of the group styled himself a “missionary to the Mormons.” I was interested to know why he spent his time in this way. Also, his pamphlets intrigued me, for they revealed that this man had very little knowledge of the Latter-day Saints’ true beliefs.
As I talked with him briefly, he pulled from his pocket a list of questions that he frequently asked members of the Church. “Is God a man?” he asked me confidently.
“No,” I replied, “God is not a man. It says so in the Bible.” (See Num. 23:19; 1 Sam. 15:29.)
“You’re the only Mormon who believes that,” he said. “Your church teaches that God is a man.”
“That’s not correct,” I countered. “Let me read to you from the Bible exactly what my church does teach.” I then quoted from Psalms 82:6, which reads: “Ye are gods; and all of you are children of the most High.”
“No,” I said, “God is not a man; man is a god—or, at least, so he may become. This is what Jesus said to the Jews in the tenth chapter of John when he quoted that very Psalm.” (See John 10:34–36.)
As I walked to my car after this unsuccessful encounter (the man soon left me to hand pamphlets to others), I thought of the many ways in which God’s true nature is distorted in the teachings of so many Christian churches. Joseph Smith taught that not only does God have a body, but that he “dwells in everlasting burnings.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1938, p. 361.) (This idea is found in a number of ancient sources as well.) But many—perhaps the majority—of churches teach that it is the devil who has a body (often pictured with horns, tail, and cloven hoof) and dwells in everlasting burnings. How often I have thought that Satan must surely enjoy the visual irony that much of Christianity has reversed his position with that of God! For the truth of the matter is that it is the devil who is but a spirit.
Thank God—the real God—for the teachings of the restored gospel.

As a young stake president, I met many of the General Authorities when they came to speak at our stake conference. What a wonderful experience! President Hugh B. Brown came to one of our stake conferences just a week before he was called and sustained as a member of the Council of the Twelve. We enjoyed his warm spirit and his good humor. As I helped him put his coat on and walked out to his car with him, I said, “Elder Brown, do you have any personal advice for me?”
His answer was, “Yes. Follow the Brethren.” He did not choose to elaborate or explain, but he left that powerful message: Have the simple faith to follow the Brethren.

One day Heber J. Grant was playing marbles with some friends when a bookkeeper from the bank walked by.
Friend 1: That man makes a lot of money.
Heber: How much?
Friend 1: As much as you would earn polishing 120 pairs of boots every single day.
Heber knew he wanted to be able to make a living when he was older.
Heber: Someday I’ll be a bookkeeper at the bank too!
Friend 2: You’d better learn how to write. Your writing looks like lightning struck the ink bottle.
Friend 1: It’s worse than hen tracks!
Heber worked on his handwriting until it was beautiful.
To earn money, he wrote greeting cards, wedding cards, and legal documents. He was offered a large amount of money to be a professional penman in the state of California, but he didn’t take the job.
Eventually, Heber reached his goal of working at the bank. He also became a penmanship teacher at a university.

I can’t wait to be a deacon. Ever since I was little, I’ve watched with envy as the older boys passed the sacrament. It’s an important job, and they always seem to know just where to go when they pass the sacrament. Now it’s my turn. My twelfth birthday is this week, and I’ve been learning about the priesthood in Blazer class. I’ve been dreaming about passing the sacrament myself. I wonder if I’ll get to pass it to the bishop.
My Blazer teacher told us that we would be interviewed by the bishop before we could be ordained. This would be my second interview—he had already interviewed me when I was going to get baptized. But I’ve lived half my life again since then!
I like my bishop. I see him every Sunday, and he knows my name. Sometimes he says hello. But I still worried about that interview. Did I know enough to be a deacon? Would he ask me about things I keep secret? Could I share my secrets with him? If I did, would he keep them secret?
Friday after dinner the bishop’s secretary called and said the bishop wanted to see me after my Blazer class on Sunday. I said OK, but I was nervous. In my mind I went over everything I thought that he might ask me. I began to remember all the things that happened this year. Some of them I wished hadn’t happened.
Sunday after class I headed for the bishop’s office. What a busy place! I thought. Everybody wants to see him. I think I’ll go home and come another day.
But he saw me. “Hello there, Bobby,” he called. “Come in and sit down, please. Excuse me just one moment.” He stepped out into the hall to talk to someone about something. I wondered what they were talking about. I looked around his office. He had a big chair and a desk, a picture of the Savior, and a picture of President Benson. I saw the scriptures on his desk. They sure were well worn. I wondered what it would be like to be a bishop.
The door opened, and the bishop came back in and sat next to me. He shook my hand. “Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “You’re almost twelve, the age when we normally confer the Aaronic Priesthood and ordain boys as deacons. I’ve talked with your father, and he also felt that you and I should have this interview. Tell me what you know and how you feel about the priesthood.”
Oh no, I thought. What shall I tell him? He probably knows everything about the priesthood. I started by telling him some things from Blazer class and some things my mother had taught me. He didn’t interrupt, and once I got started, my nervousness went away.
When I finished, he said, “Very good. I can see that you’ve been paying attention and that you understand some important principles. There are some scriptures about the priesthood that I’d like to share with you. They’re some of my favorites.”
He turned first to section 20 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 20]. We read from it and talked about the duties of a deacon. Then we read from section 84 [D&C 84] and talked about the covenant of the Aaronic Priesthood. After that, he turned to what he said was his favorite scripture—section 121. We read from verse 34 to the end of the section [D&C 121:34–46]. He helped me understand what the promise in verses 45 and 46 meant. [D&C 121:45–46]
Then he looked me right in the eyes and asked if I was paying tithing. I thought about how hard it had been to start. I was sure happy that I could say I was a full-tithe payer. I told him how good I felt when I paid my tithing.
Next he asked me if I ever smoked or drank alcoholic beverages or took drugs. I remembered the time my friends and I had tried a cigarette, and I didn’t want to say anything. I hadn’t even told my parents. I knew it was wrong when I’d done it, and I still felt bad about it. Something inside me said, “Speak up,” but I just couldn’t. My silence must have told the bishop I was wrestling with something, because he talked to me about keeping secrets. He called it “confidentiality.” He said that he would keep anything I told him a secret unless I gave him permission to share it with my parents. Then he waited.
It seemed like a long time while I figured out what words to use. I told him about smoking and how ashamed it made me feel. We talked about how it had happened and what I should do to repent. I didn’t tell him who I’d done it with, and he didn’t ask me to. He said that his knowing their names had nothing to do with my worthiness to receive the priesthood. We discussed the help my parents could give me, and I decided to tell them. A calm feeling came over me. I guess that’s what happens when you do something that you know is right.
When the bishop asked me if I was morally clean, I didn’t know what he meant, so I asked him. He explained about keeping my mind and body clean. We talked about how to do that. He explained that if I lived righteously, the power of the priesthood would always be with me.
He asked me to kneel with him and say a prayer, so I did. It was a short one. Then he prayed. He asked Heavenly Father to bless me, and that made me feel good. I knew that my bishop liked me.
I can hardly wait to tell Mom and Dad about my interview. They’ll be happy for me and will help me be a good, worthy bearer of the priesthood. Just think—next Sunday I’ll be presented in sacrament meeting by the bishop to be sustained to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and to be ordained a deacon. And the week after that, I’ll pass the sacrament. I’m going to be reverent when I do and try to set a good example. Maybe some younger boys will be looking up to me.

We have three young children, ages five, three, and one. Initially our family home evenings were disasters. The children would disruptively keep the attention on themselves. My wife and I felt almost defeated.
Then one Monday night, my wife taught about Samuel the Lamanite using flannel-board pictures as visuals. We all took turns posting the pictures on the board to correspond with the characters in the account as they were mentioned. The children enjoyed the activity so much that we had our first peaceful and Spirit-filled family home evening in many months.
This lesson revolutionized our family home evenings. We began preparing more interactive lessons, and the children volunteered to do all sorts of things to make family home evening work. We also began devoting more time to planning our family home evenings. We made sure that no two home evenings had the same agenda. The variety of activities helped to keep our children’s interest.
It has taken deliberate efforts on our part to institute and sustain these elements in our family home evenings. But our children now anticipate family home evening and participate in more constructive ways.

On one occasion I was trying to help a woman see her husband more truthfully and compassionately instead of so accusingly. I told her I would begin describing her husband and his situation as I saw them, and then I would ask her to take over and continue with her observations. I began by mentioning some of his problems and limitations, and then started listing his strengths. Then I asked her to take over. She described how good he was with the children, how helpful he was in the ward, how much he liked people generally.
Suddenly she looked at me with shock on her face: “Do you know what I see? I see the man I married!” I explained that he had been there all along, but that she had ceased to see his strengths because of her exaggerated attention to his weaknesses.
She then looked at her husband, and as her head fell onto his shoulder she sobbed, “I’m so sorry for the way I have blamed you and treated you all these years. Can you ever forgive me?”
She had come into that session feeling sorry for herself and for the way her husband had mistreated her. But she left sorrowing over the way she had treated him. As she admitted the truth to herself, her heart softened, leading her to a sincere desire to change.