Gospel Story Finder

A little more than a month later, Wilford Woodruff, an apostle and the president of the Church’s British mission, found a letter from Brigham Young waiting for him in his office in Liverpool, England. “We have had a good deal of sorrow and trouble here this fall,” Brigham told his friend. “It is therefore advisable for us to remove as the only condition of peace.”7
Wilford was alarmed but not surprised. He had read newspaper reports of mob attacks around Nauvoo. But he had not known how bad the situation was until now. “This is a strange age we live in,” Wilford thought after reading the letter. The United States government claimed to protect oppressed peoples and to shelter exiles, but Wilford could not remember a time when it had helped the Saints.
“The state of Illinois and the whole United States have filled up their cup of iniquity,” he wrote in his journal, “and well may the Saints go out of her midst.”8
Fortunately, most of Wilford’s family was out of harm’s way. His wife, Phebe, and their youngest children, Susan and Joseph, were with him in England. Their other daughter, Phebe Amelia, was staying with relatives in the eastern United States, more than a thousand miles away from the danger.
Their oldest son, Willy, however, was still in Nauvoo in the care of close friends. In his letter, Brigham mentioned that the boy was safe, yet Wilford still felt anxious to reunite his family.9
As quorum president, Brigham offered Wilford instructions for what to do next. “Send no more emigrants here,” he advised, “but let them wait in England till they can ship for the Pacific Ocean.” As for the American missionaries in England, he wanted those who had not received their temple ordinances to return immediately to Nauvoo to receive them.10
In the days that followed, Wilford sent letters to the American elders preaching in England, informing them of the persecution in Nauvoo. Though he and Phebe had already received their ordinances, they decided to return home as well.
“I have a portion of my family scattered some two thousand miles apart in the States,” Wilford explained in a farewell message to the British Saints. “It appears at the present time to be a duty resting upon me to return there and gather together my children that they may go out with the camp of the Saints.”
Wilford appointed Reuben Hedlock, the previous mission president, to preside again in Britain. Though Wilford did not have full confidence in Reuben, who had mismanaged Church funds in the past, no one else in England had more experience in mission leadership. And Wilford had little time to find a better replacement. After reuniting with the Quorum of the Twelve, he would recommend calling another man to take Reuben’s place.11

When I was a young man, my home was on Long Island about 30 miles from New York City. We had woods around us, and we enjoyed nature. My father had a large yard with hedges, rock gardens, fish pool, vegetable garden, lawns, and trees. They all required regular care. There were always chores, like cutting the lawn in the summer and raking leaves in the autumn. I thought we worked pretty hard taking care of our yard, but it was nothing like my father’s boyhood on the sugar beet farm in Burton, Idaho.
One day my father said to me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you go out and work on the ranch with your Uncle Frank.” So I spent that summer in Skull Valley near Tooele, Utah, learning how to work.
The change from the lush greenery of my home in Long Island and Skull Valley’s dusty, stark desert environment was hard for me to believe. It gave me an appreciation of the first impressions the pioneers coming from Europe and the eastern part of the United States must have had when they were told, “This is the place.”
I had grown up near a large city. Ranch life was an education for me. I was impressed to see the cattle and the horses and the hard work necessary to bring about the harvest. I can remember the feelings when I first realized that an enormous amount of preparation was necessary before the crops were brought in. We had to plow, disk, harrow, plant, cultivate, weed, irrigate and then continue to cultivate, weed, and irrigate, endlessly it seemed. That summer was a great lesson to me. It is a cherished part of my heritage, because it was here in this almost desolate, remote corner of the world that I learned the law of the harvest.

Trials and tests apply to rich and poor alike. Years ago I was asked to perform an operation upon a very wealthy man. A surgical biopsy confirmed that he had an advanced cancer that had spread throughout his body. As I reported this news, his immediate response was to rely upon his wealth. He would go anywhere or do anything to treat his condition. He thought he could buy his way back to health. But he soon passed away. Someone asked, “How much wealth did he leave?” The answer, of course, was, “All of it!”
His priorities were set upon things of the world. His ladder of success had been leaning against the wrong wall. I think of him when I read this scripture: “Behold, your days of probation are past; ye have procrastinated the day of your salvation until it is … too late.”

My natural mother, Irene, was unknown to me; she died from a serious infection in 1946 caused by inadequately clean medical instruments. I was 8 months old at the time, so the key consequence for me was the loss of that physical bond so essential to an infant in their early years. I was the fourth child, so very fortunately there were older siblings who had some memories of Irene; and even more fortunate was the connection I made with Shirley, the dear lifetime friend of my oldest sibling, Gwen, who fondly recalled her memories of my mother.
Shirley would often visit our home in Hayes, within a stone’s throw of her own home. She always remembered the very kind lady that was my mother. This connection with Shirley was made when I was in my fifties, and fortunately well before Gwen passed away in her late 70s — this long-distance friendship between Shirley in England and Gwen in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, was crucial to me in becoming better acquainted with my early departed mother.

A letter and an old ashtray came to the office of the Presiding Bishop. The letter reads: “Dear Sir, I stole the enclosed ashtray from your hotel in 1965. After these many years, I want to apologize to you and ask for your forgiveness for my wrongdoing. Sincerely, (signature)
“P.S. I have enclosed a check that attempts to reimburse you for the ashtray.”
The check was in the amount of $26.00, one dollar for each year he had kept the ashtray. I can imagine that during those twenty-six years, each time he tapped his cigarette on the rim of that tray he suffered a twinge of conscience. I do not know that the hotel ever missed the ashtray, but the man who took it missed his peace of mind for more than a quarter of a century and finally ended up paying far more for the stolen tray than it was worth. Yes, honesty is the best policy.

Lucy and her older sisters entered an art contest at their school about making the world a better place. Lucy wanted to paint a heart. She said, “The world be a better place if we have love in our hearts.”
When Lucy found out that her painting won the contest, she told her sister Ruby, “Yours is so good. I wish you would have won instead of me.” Then Lucy couldn’t believe it when she found out her painting won the contest for the whole United States too!

I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

Two months after I was baptized, I told the sister missionaries that I had not yet paid any tithing. I was out of work and didn’t have enough money to last the month. The sisters read the Lord’s promise to open the windows of heaven, and I felt the Holy Ghost testify to me, “Trust in the Lord.”
I felt so happy the next day when I paid tithing on the small amount I had. During the next week, I found a job. I am so happy to know that if we trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, He will do miracles for us.
Ivanka Ivanova, Sofia Tsentralen Branch, Sofia Bulgaria District

Illustration by Bradley Clark
I had just sat down on the bus when a man across the aisle leaned over to me and said, “You have a beautiful soul.”
Needless to say, I was surprised. I had never been complimented on my soul before. Unsure how to respond, I just said, “Thank you.”
The man told me he could tell because of his work with his religious group. I listened to him as he gave me advice on how to keep my soul beautiful.
When the bus rolled to a stop, we both stood to exit and he imparted a final thought to me: “Be sure you don’t listen to those Mormons.”
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. This man had seen something special in my countenance, but he had no idea that it was because of my religion.
How was I going to respond? To be honest, my first thought was to say nothing and pretend I hadn’t heard him. I was worried that if I told him I was a member of the Church, he might respond negatively or even harshly.
But then a scripture came to mind: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Romans 1:16). I realized that I was not ashamed of the gospel, and I knew that my soul could not shine for others if I did not stand as a witness. With my new resolve, I looked at the man and said, “Actually, I am one.”
The man stared at me and I stared back. To my surprise, he laughed and said he could not join the Church because he was too fond of coffee. I laughed too, and we went our separate ways.
To this day I am glad about the choice I made. I know that it can be difficult to stand as a member of the Church. Sometimes it can be terrifying! But when we stand for God, our souls can shine as lights to the world.

The sky was a crisp blue the morning I planned to fly out. After weeks of hard work, I had finally earned enough money to take a trip and visit one of my friends in another state. I was a little nervous. This would be my very first flight alone, so I tried to plan the trip down to every last detail, just so I could be sure I wouldn’t forget anything.
I fidgeted excitedly in the passenger seat as my mom drove me to the airport. When she asked when my departure time was, I read it to her off my travel itinerary. Then I took a closer look. The time I had boxed and starred as my departure was actually the arrival time at my destination. My heart sank, and I felt sick. My plane wasn’t getting ready to take off, it was already hundreds of miles away getting ready to land, and I wasn’t on it!
Dejected, I told my mom to just turn around and take me home, but she insisted on taking me to the airport, hoping that I might be able to catch a flight on standby.
I wasn’t very hopeful when I approached the ticket desk agent and explained my dilemma. To my surprise, the woman offered me a space on the next flight out, free of transfer charges. I was overjoyed. There was little I could have done to fix my predicament, but with the help and kindness of others, I was able to continue on my journey. I later found that the blessings didn’t end there.
As I was walking to my gate, I received a phone call from the temp agency I worked for. They offered me the best job opportunity I had received all summer. I happily accepted.
I didn’t think much of the call’s connection to my missed flight until months later when I was actually sitting at the job. It hit me then that the only way I could have possibly accepted the job was by missing my flight. In the past I had learned that calls from this temp agency were one-shot deals. If you answered the phone, the job was yours. If you didn’t answer, the agency would move on. If I had caught my flight that summer morning, I would have been in the air and out of reach when the call came. The job opportunity would have been lost. In the end my seemingly disastrous oversight blessed the rest of my summer.
I know that often, by reflecting on trials we’ve had in the past, we come to see how the Lord is blessing and shaping us, helping us to have the experiences that we need. I’m so grateful that I have been able to see such clear evidence of the Lord blessing and directing my life. If we are patient in our trials, we may ultimately see how they work for our good.

Gladys Guerrero, 16, was the only Latter-day Saint attending a military high school in Maracaibo. During the first week of school, she was forced to stand in front of all 500 students and explain why she wouldn’t drink coffee. Although many students ridiculed Gladys for her lifestyle, others started watching her closely. “When they saw that I didn’t do certain things, such as drink alcohol or go to some parties, some of them became interested in the gospel,” she says. “The missionaries passed by the school one day, and I called to them. I introduced them to some of the students, and they got many referrals.” Ten of Gladys’s classmates were baptized during the next several months.

One day when we were walking home from school, we saw a big black dog. We were afraid and tried to hide by the side of a neighbor’s house. The dog wouldn’t leave. We decided to say a prayer. As soon as we were finished, a lady came out of the house. She saw us and helped us get the dog away so we could hurry home. We had faith that Heavenly Father would hear and answer our prayer.Jared Curtis and Erin Rhodes, age 6, with help from Jared’s mom, American Fork, Utah

My little brother, Benjamin, is six years old. A sister in our stake who had cancer needed an operation but didn’t have enough money for it. Flyers reading, “Will you please help save a life?” were sent out asking for donations. When Ben read one, he got twenty dollars, which was all he had, and put it in an envelope to give to the sister. He only gets sixty cents a week for allowance, so twenty dollars was a lot of money for him.
Ben collects coins as a hobby, and I said, “Why don’t you give just part of your money, then you can buy some coins for yourself with the rest.”
“Which is more important, buying coins or saving a life?” he asked. That really impressed me, and I decided to donate some money, too.
My parents kept saying how good Benjamin was because he had given all the money he had. This made me a little jealous of my brother because although I hadn’t given all the money I had, I had donated more money than Ben!
Then I remembered a scripture story about a really poor woman who had only a little money. She gave it all to care for the poor. Some rich people came and gave lots of gold. They were proud of how much money they had given to the poor. But Jesus Christ said that the poor woman had given the most because she had given all that she had.
I was sorry for being jealous of my brother. I felt good knowing that we had been able to help raise the money for the operation. Most of all, I was glad that my little brother had helped me learn a very important lesson about giving.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed by such women. My departed wife, Dantzel, was such a woman. I will always be grateful for the life-changing influence she had on me in all aspects of my life, including my pioneering efforts in open-heart surgery.

Fifty-eight years ago I was asked to operate upon a little girl, gravely ill from congenital heart disease. Her older brother had previously died of a similar condition. Her parents pleaded for help. I was not optimistic about the outcome but vowed to do all in my power to save her life. Despite my best efforts, the child died. Later, the same parents brought another daughter to me, then just 16 months old, also born with a malformed heart. Again, at their request, I performed an operation. This child also died. This third heartbreaking loss in one family literally undid me.

I went home grief stricken. I threw myself upon our living room floor and cried all night long. Dantzel stayed by my side, listening as I repeatedly declared that I would never perform another heart operation. Then, around 5:00 in the morning, Dantzel looked at me and lovingly asked, “Are you finished crying? Then get dressed. Go back to the lab. Go to work! You need to learn more. If you quit now, others will have to painfully learn what you already know.”

Oh, how I needed my wife’s vision, grit, and love! I went back to work and learned more. If it weren’t for Dantzel’s inspired prodding, I would not have pursued open-heart surgery and would not have been prepared to do the operation in 1972 that saved the life of President Spencer W. Kimball.9

Lester was always filled with surprises. One day, I was helping him cut grass around runway lights. We’d finished half of them and were lying on our backs watching clouds appear and disappear. All of a sudden, he said, “Ya know something? I believe in God.”
I looked over at him, not sure I’d heard right.
“Yep,” he added in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. “Yep, there has to be someone up there somewhere to have made such a beautiful place as this. …”
And it was Lester who taught me the “What-If” Game.
“What if one day yer flying along and ya smell smoke?”
“What if one day yer puddling along up there, minding your own business, and all of a sudden. …”
He had hundreds of what-ifs.
One evening as we were flying back and forth across an Ohio summer sky, polishing up a few maneuvers I’d need for my private pilot’s flight test, Lester suddenly reached up without warning and cut the switch on the plane’s engine. My heart stopped along with the propeller. Then he sat back, pulled his cap down over his eyes, folded his arms, and feigned sleep.
I panicked.
I’d stood on the ground and watched Lester come in dead stick a hundred times. So I knew it could be done. But Lester was good—and he’d been flying for 500 years! I was just a kid!
My neck was starting to unscrew from my shoulders as I swiveled my head trying to pick the best cornfield, wheatfield, hayfield, highway, Lake Erie, any place to land! We’d drilled on this a hundred times! But it was always with the engine idling. This was different. The gentle kick of an idling propeller was gone and the altimeter was unwinding—fast!
I finally spotted a good field and started to align the nose with it. It would be a tricky approach. We’d have to cross some woods and then slip quickly into a field I knew would be much too tight. But if I did it perfectly and then kicked it into a groundloop just as we reached the far side fence …
Lester stirred. “Why don’t ya use Bunch’s strip?” he asked, pointing downward. “You didn’t look right under us. We’re right over top of Bunch Woods’s home strip!”
He was right! Straight below us was about 1,200 feet of beautiful Ohio grass with Bunch Woods’s house and plane sitting smack at the end.
When we stopped rolling after landing, Lester sat up, set his cap back on straight and said, “Mebbe ya better play the What-If Game more often.” He turned to look at me and his face was serious. “Because, ya know, it’s not a matter of if you’ll ever have an emergency in flight, it’s a matter of when. And when it happens, you’ll be glad you stretched for excellence instead of just being good.”
For me, that night came years later in Gallup, New Mexico, on the way home from a meeting in Tucson. I’d pushed fuel limits a little too far and suddenly found myself with no reserve to reach an alternative field. A mean little thundersquall was sitting on the airport’s north fence sending wind gusts up to 60 miles an hour across the runway. My wife and kids were with me.
Lester was right.
I’ve played the What-If Game many times since then. It’s easy and kind of fun, too. All you do is find a time when you’re a little bored and ask yourself, What if … ?
“What do I do if some day I’m out with the guys and … ?”
“What do I do if some day I’m driving along, minding my own business, and … ?”
“What do I do if some dark night, my boyfriend … ?”
It’s an easy game to play. It doesn’t take any equipment to speak of. And you always win.
But the best part is that when the real thing comes along, you have a plan ready to pull out and use when you need it. Because when you really need it, there won’t be time to plan.
Somewhere, sometime, some night when you’re all alone with no one to help you, you’ll be faced with a split-second decision. It’ll be a decision you’ll have to make alone. It may involve alcohol. It may involve drugs. It may involve sex. It may be dishonesty. But whatever it is, that time will come. It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when and where.
I learned the What-If Game when I was a kid. It’s a game that needs to be played frequently and well. For the laws of life, like the law of gravity, are strictly enforced.

“Let’s enter,” Kristy urged her twin brother Derek. So after school they did.
As an incentive to keep the youth out of trouble and off the streets on traditionally mischief-filled Halloween night, community merchants had donated a good used car as a prize for the one teenager contacted and found home before midnight.
Not much was mentioned of the contest or the twins silent dreams until supper time October 31st, when Kristy expressed her distinct confidence and anticipation. A strong hunch that she would be the winner left her expectant all evening while at the door she met one “trick-or-treater” after another. Derek attended volleyball practice, returning home exhausted. By 10:30 he was fast asleep.
Soon treats were depleted, porch lights extinguished, and younger brothers and sisters retired with mild stomach aches from overindulgence. Even Kristy relented and went to bed. Only Mother was still reading when at 11:45 the shrill ring of the telephone sent her flying in response. “This is radio station KPCS wishing to speak with … Derek,” she was told. As if by prearrangement the entire household flared alive. Father switched on the radio to listen in on the conversation. Several youngsters squealed into Derek’s bedroom, dragging their groggy brother to the downstairs extension phone. Suddenly realizing the implication of this late disturbance, he became fully alert. Incredulous as it seemed, his brain registered the fact that he had won the coveted automobile. Hundreds of teenagers must have put in their names. Yet he would be the one to drive home the prize the very next afternoon. Nothing this exciting had ever happened to him before.
Understandably, the family had trouble settling down. Finally, having drifted off to dreamland, Derek visualized himself on gleaming hubcapped “wheels,” gliding noiselessly through throngs of cheering friends. Later he found himself whizzing breathlessly past open spaces in a fire-red machine, and before waking to reality, he was the one roaring down main street in a fabulous convertible, accompanied by several of the most gorgeous girls he had ever seen—the envy of all his peers.
Indeed, the next day Derek was the center of attraction when word of his good fortune spread at seminary and at school. “What kind of a car is it?” he was asked repeatedly. No one knew. Some speculated on a late model; others, less optimistic, suspected an old “clunker.” But when at last classes had finished Derek was to find out.
The vehicle his eyes beheld proved to be beyond his expectations, much nicer than those owned by anyone in his circle of friends. That purring beauty was his, all his. Was he ever going to have a ball!
Delighted and proud he was greeted by his equally pleased family, all assembled on the front lawn. Neighbors soon joined them. Each was given a ride. Definitely this was Derek’s finest hour. Soon the dealer’s license plate had to be returned. Well, tomorrow insurance matters could be worked out.
The subject did come up and was thoroughly considered and discussed with earnest efforts made to help Derek’s car get on the road. Yet it simply could not be done. The painful truth was that funds had been extremely limited with one brother in the mission field, another due to leave and depending on family assistance. Even Derek, a senior in high school, had been forced to drop out of basketball because he was unable to afford the tournament travel expenses. Scraping up nearly $400 for licensing and insurance was impossible under the circumstances.
So there stood the apple of Derek’s eye, evoking a pronounced pounding of his heart every time he glanced at it and extracting each spare minute of his time with polishing and sprucing it up to top performance. Particular care was lavished on achieving the finest reproduction from its stereo system. How he yearned to drive it!
Still, hope prevailed. Perhaps an after-school and Saturday job was the solution. Unfortunately, scores of jobless hopefuls saturated the market. Weeks of filling out applications, interviews, and callbacks produced no results.
One blustery December day Derek noticed a vaguely familiar figure stomping through the deep snow. Seconds later he recognized it as belonging to Sister Taylor. Her family had been experiencing incredible hardships. First, their business had gone bankrupt. Then they had lost their home, recently also their car.
Ever so subtly and ever so quietly a thought began creeping into Derek’s subconscious mind. On reaching awareness, he tried desperately to push it out. However, once conceived, it would not be suppressed. No matter how hard he fought the impulse, gradually a plan took shape, one which caused him to alternate between gladness and sadness. And so, at first reluctantly, but soon with stern determination, the young man made a difficult and noble decision.
Christmas Sunday at priesthood meeting someone mentioned, “Did I see Brother Taylor driving your car today, Derek?” “I sold it to him,” was the reply.
This prompted several priests into simultaneously responding, “But they have no money.”
“They had enough,” answered Derek with a wistful grin. Audible only to himself he added, “They had one dollar.”

The Lord has placed upon parents the primary responsibility for the spiritual nurturing of their children. Sometimes this responsibility falls to a single parent. My own mother was relatively young when my father died, leaving her alone with four children. But she faced her adversity with faith and courage, promising us that if we stayed on the road of truth, the end would be better than the beginning. Like the children of valiant mothers in the Book of Mormon, “we [did] not doubt our [mother] knew it” (Alma 56:48). Brothers and sisters, I understand in a personal way the great influence of mothers.
Today I stand before you to bear my witness that Jesus Christ is the very Savior and Redeemer of the world. This is His Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Our Heavenly Father wants all of His children to return to Him. I know this without contradiction because of the witness of the Holy Ghost to my heart. I didn’t always know—when I was younger I had to rely on my parents’ testimony. My mother assured me that if I stayed on the road of truth, even when it seemed hot and dusty, even when there were distractions, the end would be better than the beginning. I will be eternally grateful that Mother told me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

My name is Kathryn Fifield, and I live in Moscow, Idaho. I’m eleven years old, and I think temples are wonderful! I know a little bit about them because when I was eight, I got to go inside the Portland Oregon Temple.
When the Church leaders announced that a new temple would be built nearby, everyone was very excited. My parents were especially happy because they knew that they could go to the temple more often.
We drove to Portland when the temple was being built. It was standing in the middle of a grove of fir trees. The trees were so tall that I had to lean way back to see the tops. But the temple spires were just as tall! The spires were only metal cages then, but to me they looked like arms reaching to heaven, and I knew that this temple would be a holy place.
Finally the workers finished putting marble on the outside, and it really looked like a temple. My mom and dad said that when it was all finished, we would get to go inside. There would be an open house so that anyone who wanted to could see the inside of the temple. After that, there would be a special meeting called a dedication that worthy members were invited to. After the dedication, only members of the Church who had recommends from their bishop/branch president and stake/district president could go inside.
I felt really special to be able to go to the open house. My family drove to the temple on Saturday morning. When we arrived there, we had to stand in a long line that went halfway around the building! I guess a lot of people wanted to see the temple. I know that most of those people in line didn’t know what a temple was, because I heard them asking each other questions. Some of them thought that we went to church every Sunday at the temple.
It wasn’t too hard to wait in line, because all along the way there were television screens set up for us to see. A program on them told about what temples are and how we use them. I guess those people learned that we don’t use the temple for our Sunday meetings.
When we finally reached the door, some helpers put white paper booties over our shoes. That was to keep the new carpets clean and to show respect.
Inside the temple it was very quiet. Nobody talked or even whispered. There were special guides to show us where to go, but they didn’t talk to us. They just smiled as we walked by. We looked, and we read the information on the signs that explained what each room was, but we didn’t say anything.
When we walked through the big chapel, we heard soft music being played on the organ. The tour included the baptismal font with the sculpture of twelve white oxen holding it up (that was my favorite). We also saw the sealing rooms, where people get married for eternity. Inside the sealing rooms were mirrors on opposite walls. When I looked in one mirror, I could see my family going on forever.
The most beautiful room was the celestial room. It was all white and gold, with pretty couches and chairs. In the middle of the ceiling was a huge, sparkling gold chandelier. It had gold “arms” with tiny light bulbs surrounded by pieces of crystal. I thought it looked like sunshine sparkling through icicles.
The thing I remember most about the inside of the temple is how reverent I felt. I didn’t want to go back outside, because it felt so nice to be in that beautiful, quiet place. It made me feel warm and happy to walk through the rooms of the temple. After we were outside again, I heard a man say it made him feel like he was already in heaven. I felt that way too.
A few weeks after the temple open house, Mom and Dad and I went to the dedication. I was eight years old, and I had been baptized, so I was old enough to go.
We sat on chairs in the hall right by the celestial room. There were people in nearly every room in the temple. Television screens were put in them so that the people could watch the meeting—we wouldn’t have all fit into the celestial room, where the prophet was seated. The choir sat in front of us, and when it was time for them to sing, they walked around a little wall and went into the celestial room, where President Benson was. It was exciting to think that President Benson was just on the other side of the wall from me!
I watched the meeting on the video screen and listened carefully to the talks. When the choir sang, the music made me happy all over. When President Benson talked, he told us that he loved all of us. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, too, but I didn’t say anything. I just smiled all over.
During this meeting, I felt even more reverent than I’d felt at the open house. After the special prayer, the temple was God’s house and not just a building anymore. I felt that Jesus and Heavenly Father were right there with us.
When I’m twelve, I’ll be able to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. I can hardly wait until then! But if I try really hard, I have that special reverent feeling in other places too. If I find a quiet place to pray and really think about Jesus and Heavenly Father, I feel that way. In church, when I try my hardest to listen to the speakers or to my teacher, I feel that way. I can even feel reverent when I walk in the forest or sit under the tree in my backyard. I’m practicing being reverent now so that when I go to the temple again, I’ll know just what to do.

When young Gordon had a bout of whooping cough, his doctor suggested that he spend time in the country to recover, so his father purchased a 30-acre fruit farm in Millcreek, on the southeast side of Salt Lake City. The farm did more than help the boy regain his health—it helped him and his brothers learn to work. Each Saturday during the spring and fall, his father took them to the farm. The family lived there during the summer months and in town during the school year.

In the Church we have many opportunities to perform charitable acts. Some of the greatest acts of charity begin with an outstretched hand of friendship. One great example was related by an elderly brother in a ward conference meeting.
This good brother was the Sunday School president and was called upon to bear his testimony. During twelve years of his life of inactivity he had been tossed to and fro with life’s problems and had become filled with deep despair. When life seemed its blackest, hands of fellowship and friendship were extended, first by home teachers, then by the bishop, then by members of the ward. As he returned to activity in the Church and felt the warm spirit of the members extended to him without judgment or reservation, he knew that the gospel of Jesus Christ was true and that there is always room for a repentant soul. The Lord forgives; his true followers also forgive. The hand of friendship is outstretched; the sinner repents; the circle of charity is complete.