Gospel Story Finder

Can you grasp the meaning of the tremendous work of this Church? Let me paint you a scenario. A pair of missionaries knock on the door of a little home somewhere in Peru. A woman answers. She does not quite understand what the missionaries want. But she invites them in. They arrange to come when her husband and other members of the family are there.
The missionaries teach them. Touched by the power of the Spirit, they respond to the message of eternal truth. They are baptized.
The family is active in the Church. They pay an honest but very meager tithing. They have a son or daughter in that family who is in his or her late teens. At the right time, the son or the daughter is called to serve a mission. The family does all it can to support him or her, and the remainder is made up from the missionary fund, which comes of the contributions of the Saints.
The son or daughter works with a companion from the United States or Canada. He or she learns English, while the companion’s Spanish is greatly improved. They work together with love and appreciation and respect, one for another, representatives of two great divergent cultures.
Upon completion of their missions, the North American returns home and goes back to school. The Peruvian returns home and is hopeful only of finding work of a menial nature. The pay is ever so small. The future is dismal. He or she does not have the needed skills to rise above such employment. And then comes this bright ray of hope. Well, brethren, you know the picture. I need not labor it further. The way before us is clear, the need is tremendous, and the Lord has pointed the way.

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other, and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, for a number of years they had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.

Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?

A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.

They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.

There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.

The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.

Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.

Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”

She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing just fine. Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

Imagine that at 13 years old you move 6,700 miles (10,782 kilometers) across the world to a new home and a new family. You have to learn a new language and culture and eat unfamiliar foods. And you can’t physically see any of it.
You might be thinking, “How could anyone do something so hard?” Well, meet Conner—a cool, carefree, and cheerful teen from Wuhan, China.
Conner was raised in a foster home in China. When he was six years old, his foster family discovered that he had an incredible ear for music. And being blind didn’t stop him from pursuing his musical talent. He took piano lessons and began attending a special school for the blind.
But just a month before he turned 14, his foster father showed up at Conner’s school and pulled him out of class. “He said that I was going to be adopted and that I needed to go home right away,” Conner says. His friends, family, and teachers got together the next day and said their goodbyes as a new chapter began in Conner’s life.
Conner found himself half a world away in Herriman, Utah. His new family included Dad (Jeremy), Mom (Christianne), six new sisters, and three new brothers. And Conner wasn’t the only child from China—six of his new siblings had been adopted from there as well.
Christianne explains, “People say that our kids are so lucky to have a family, but Conner had to leave everything that was familiar to him—a foster family who loved him, food, culture, friends—to come to this family that he didn’t know. It was a huge change, and we feel very blessed to have Conner and all the kids in our home. They’re a gift.”

One day, after finishing a service project, I was walking past our meetinghouse and saw two sisters who were cleaning the building. My words simply came out: “Sisters, do you need some help?” One of them smiled at me and said that I had arrived just in time because they were the only ones cleaning and they were very tired. She said that she had prayed that the Lord would send someone to help. I was very happy to be an answer to her prayer. I had just finished giving service to someone else and was also tired, but I followed my heart and offered to serve more.
It is a commandment to work with joy (see D&C 24:7). When we have the desire to serve at all times, we can help miracles happen in other people’s lives. Our lives become more meaningful when we serve. The Lord really does love us, He helps each of His children, and He will give us the strength to serve.

I grew up in Coronel, Chile. When I was seven years old, I memorized a poem of fourteen verses and recited it before an audience of twelve hundred people. After that experience, I developed an increased desire to read more. I read about four little books a week. At that time my mother gave me a Bible. When I was twelve, I read the Bible in about ten months. I was impressed with the history of the Old Testament, and with the Atonement of the Savior in the New Testament. All my life I tried to find another book of scripture that would teach me more about these things.
When I started meeting with the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they used a spectacular way to motivate me to read the Book of Mormon. Whenever I had a question, they opened it and read the answer from it. I wondered what kind of book it was. Finally they asked me if I wouldn’t like to read the book. I said, “Yes, I would!” They gave me a Book of Mormon as a gift, and I was extremely glad. I read it in three weeks and was very impressed with its teachings. At the end of that time, I was baptized into the Church. I have a great testimony about the influence of the scriptures in the life of a person.
My wife, Blanca, and I have three children and six grandchildren. We love our children and all children. One of the greatest expressions of love for children that I have seen occurred when I was serving as a stake president in Chile. President Spencer W. Kimball visited Chile for an area conference. Members of the Church from four countries met together in a stadium that held about fifteen thousand people. We asked President Kimball what he would like to do after the conference. His eyes full of tears, he said, “I would like to see the children.” One of the priesthood leaders announced over the microphone that President Kimball would like to shake the hands or bless each of the children in the stadium. The people were astounded—there was a great silence. President Kimball greeted about two thousand children one by one, crying as he shook their hands or kissed them or put his hands on their heads and blessed them. The children were very reverent and looked at him and cried too. He said he’d never felt this kind of spirit in his life. It was a tremendous moment in the lives of all the Church members there. We felt closer to our children, too, because of this experience with President Kimball.
I love President Gordon B. Hinckley very much. He called me to be a Seventy in 1990. I was the first Chilean called as a General Authority. It was a beautiful moment in my life. However, when I was called, I didn’t speak any English. President Hinckley, who was then First Counselor in the First Presidency, blessed me when he set me apart that I would learn English quickly.
I have two gifts that helped me to learn English quickly. My first gift is a good memory. That has been my salvation in many jobs. The other gift is my persistence. If I have a job to do, I work and work at it until it’s done. When I began to learn English at age fifty-two, I studied it five hours a day, when I had time. I listened to audio tapes every morning, then studied grammar for an hour, which was difficult for me. After that, I read the conference talks in English and listened to them on tape at the same time. I memorized about ten new vocabulary words per day. Then I read aloud in English to practice pronunciation, and I listened to English on an international news station so that I could test my understanding of what was said.
Six months after being called as a General Authority, I prepared intensely for giving my first general conference talk in English. My talk was on the Word of Wisdom.
I have had experiences with seven prophets of the Church, from President David O. McKay until now. They have all been great leaders. Now it is a blessing for the Church to have the presence of President Hinckley. It is easy to love him and to express our love to him. He is very warm with us, and he loves us.
I am grateful for all you marvelous children in the Church, and I ask you to follow Jesus Christ, our beloved Leader.

The late Elder Matthew Cowley, who was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, once recounted the Saturday afternoon experience of a grandfather as hand in hand he took his small granddaughter on a birthday visit—not to the zoo or to the movies but to the temple grounds. With permission of the groundskeeper, the two walked to the large doors of the temple. He suggested that she place her hand on the sturdy wall and then on the massive door. Tenderly he then said to her, “Remember that this day you touched the temple. One day you will go inside.” His gift to the little one was not candy or ice cream but an experience far more significant and everlasting—an appreciation of the house of the Lord. She had touched the temple, and the temple had touched her.

When I was young, my parents did volunteer work in different countries. I wanted to help people around the world too. So when I grew up, I became a doctor. I have now worked in many different countries helping people. My family and I have enjoyed being with the Latter-days Saints in these areas. They are so happy and hopeful. And they love Jesus Christ and His gospel.
My children often went to Primary with other children that didn’t look like them or speak the same language. But they were all Heavenly Father’s children. He knows and loves each one of us. We are each part of His family.

At sacrament meeting I watched other families sit together. I watched them smile at each other. I wanted my dad to be there. I wanted our family to sit together.
But he never came to church. He said they didn’t like him because he drank beer. My ward had parties for fathers and their children. I helped plan these parties. I never got to go to them.
On Father’s Day our ward gave rosebuds to all the fathers. I helped pick every rosebud in our garden. My dad didn’t come to the meeting.
I hated it when they talked about temple marriage at church. I hated hearing my family was different. I knew as long as my father drank we could not go to the temple. I loved my mother. I loved my dad. I wanted to be with them forever. It’s very difficult to sit in class when they are teaching about the temple.
I just kept going to church. I decided I would not drink. I decided I would be married in the temple.
I’m an adult now, and I definitely don’t drink. I have been married in the temple, and I’m happy that my children are sealed to me.

I first discovered the Liahona when I joined the Church several years ago. In the beginning I didn’t think much of it, but as time went by it became one of the most wonderful things in my life and a key to my success. It strengthened my testimony of the restored gospel and helped me stay strong in the Church. Because of this strength, I was able to resist temptations and set a good example for a co-worker, who was eventually baptized and confirmed.
It is so wonderful to study and share the Liahona. It will help me for the rest of my life. I’m so thankful to receive the messages from the Lord’s prophet and apostles every month. The Liahona is sweeter to me than honey and more valuable than gold.
Aldemir Guanacoma Ave, Bolivia

The musty smell of the subway always seemed stronger during the hot summer months. Still, it never really bothered me. My sense of smell was always overcome by the sights in the tunnel. There was so much to see. I guess at first you wouldn’t think that. After all, what’s there to see in a subway besides a scheduled train stopping or whizzing by every ten minutes, or shiny rails converging into the darkness in either direction?
But the people—that’s what I liked to watch. There was always someone interesting to see. There were short, tall, medium, stout, and skinny people, of all colors. And if their style of dress didn’t reveal their nationalities, their different languages or accents certainly did. Waiting for the next train was always a pleasure, for the time afforded me the opportunity to learn from what I saw.
On one particular afternoon I learned an unexpected lesson about charity. While waiting for the three o’clocker, I watched a blind man on the other side of the tracks waiting for the train going in the opposite direction. I marveled at how this man with dark glasses enjoyed a type of sight: the guidance of his dog. And I wondered, How will he know which train to get on? The man can’t see, his dog can’t read, and the train operator doesn’t shout out destinations.
When the first train on the opposite side of the tracks arrived, the man didn’t get on. When the next train stopped and its doors opened, the dog moved, and before the man had taken a second step toward the doors, a woman who had just exited the train unhesitatingly took the man’s arm and helped him board. It was more than her smile that showed me she cared; her quick willingness to respond said more.
Inside the train, another passenger also took the blind man’s arm and guided him to the seat next to his. As the train took off I followed its lights into the tunnel until they finally disappeared.
All the way home I thought about the blind man and those who had helped him. Sure, the man could have entered the train and seated himself with little trouble. But those who had helped him acted naturally and without hesitation. That’s when the idea of charity popped into my mind. Charity isn’t doing something just for someone who can’t do it for himself. Nor is it doing something just for someone who can return the favor. It’s doing good because it has become our nature to do it.

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bike without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray was fun to be with. He would often take Jason along with him when he went to the park or to the baseball field. But now Ray had gone to the store for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.
“Aaaah,” he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a profound hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“OK.” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding past the houses, with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason wished he could go farther than the corner. It would be neat to ride around the block. The thrill of such an adventure filled his mind. He decided to go partway around, then come straight back. But as Jason pedaled faster and faster, pretending that he was a fireman racing his truck to a fire, he sped down several blocks. “Aaaah!” he crowed happily.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but the longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bike and lowered the kickstand, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He thought about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God,/ And he has sent me here,/ Has given me an earthly home/ With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaah!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaah!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big bear hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard that off-tune hymn coming to me out of the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

I must have stared at his picture a thousand times—sometimes in anger and jealousy, other times with curiosity and wishful wondering. There it sat in the same place, year after year, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Once again I was looking at it, studying every detail, and searching my memory for any recollection of the laughing face in the picture before me.
I lifted it from the shelf, then curled up on the couch to study it. The boy in the picture was 15 years old at the time it was taken. He had black hair like my father and soft blue eyes like my mother. He had the wide grin that definitely belonged to my grandfather and the perfect, straight family nose that we all have. He had always been big for his age, but in this picture, he was quite thin. I knew that this was taken when he first became sick and at the same time his little sister was born, his little sister who was me.
At times I nearly hated him. Because of him and his sickness, I had a neglected babyhood. There are hardly any pictures of me as a baby in our family photo albums, and my family remembers few “cute” things I did while growing up. No one is sure when I started to walk, talk, or cut my first tooth. You see, at this time, the boy in the picture—my brother Brett—got leukemia. According to my family, he put up a huge fight for two years; but the disease eventually won, and at the age of 17, he died.
Whenever our family gets together for anything, the conversation always works its way back to memories of times with Brett, and then, of course, about his heroic struggle with his illness. But to me, he is a stranger, an envied, wondered about, sometimes resented stranger.
I suppose it’s self-centered of me to feel I was neglected as a small child, but being the youngest, you’d think I would have received a lot of attention. Brett must have demanded everyone’s time, love, and attention. I was sure I always had to take the back seat during my early childhood. My accomplishments—like pronouncing my first words—just weren’t as important as Brett’s accomplishments—like going into remission for a while.
Sometimes I’d feel angry and a little sad when my family would talk about times with Brett before I was born. Last weekend, when my brother and sister and their families came for Mother’s Day, it didn’t take long before I’d had enough of the memories I couldn’t share, so I escaped to the kitchen to scrub the countertops and dishes. Mom followed me into the kitchen.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to …”
I turned from the sink to face her with my arms folded. “Mom, since we always talk about stuff that happened when Brett was alive, I guess no one in this family thinks we’ve done anything interesting since Brett died, right?”
“Honey, you know that’s not true. We’ve had some wonderful times together since Brett died. We’ve had some great times. I know it’s hard for you to have to listen about times that you weren’t part of …”
Suddenly, from the other room, voices became even louder.
“Oh, that reminds me. Remember when Brett started high school?” Chuckling and laughter followed this remark of my sister, Tara.
“He wasn’t anything like the rest of you. He had to be the class clown and make everyone laugh.” That was Dad. “And yet he always managed to get wonderful grades.”
“And don’t forget what he did for the school itself. I remember how the principal and some of his teachers would tell him what a disappointment he was because of the stunts he’d pull. And look what he did—he won the debating awards and helped the football team go to state one year and region the next.” My brother Alex was only a year older than Brett. He remembers a lot of things about Brett that the rest of us never knew.
“I can’t believe how easily he could weasel into and out of all kinds of situations, like sneaking out his window at night and down the tree, and yet always making it back home just in time.” Tara’s voice again.
The conversation had pulled Mom back into the room. “Just exactly where he would sneak off to is something I’d like to know!” Mom laughed.
“Stop—I don’t want to know!” Dad laughed back.
I stood in the kitchen listening. I smiled to myself as I thought about some of the things he’d done that I’d heard stories about. But I couldn’t help the familiar, hollow feeling that grew inside of me. Sometimes I could laugh along with everyone else, but I’d always feel as if I’d missed out on something—and I hated feeling that way.
My family didn’t constantly talk about Brett. In fact, I could go for days, even weeks, without even thinking about him. But then I’d go into the living room and see his picture, and I’d start wondering again.
Today I turned 16. I had a pretty good birthday. My parents gave me lots of nice things, and Alex and Tara and their families came over to help me celebrate.
This evening Mom came into my room and dropped a long, faded white envelope into my lap with only the name “Kitty” printed on it in an unfamiliar handwriting.
“What’s this?” I questioned. Kitty. That had been an old family nickname for me when I’d been really little, but no one had called me that for years.
“Open it and find out.” Mom smiled at me in a funny kind of way, then left me, closing the door quietly behind her.
I frowned at the envelope in my hands. I couldn’t stop looking at the name “Kitty” suspiciously. Who would call me that? I finally ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper filled with handwriting that matched the name “Kitty” on the envelope.
Dear Kitty,
If Mom has done what she promised she’d do, then right now, today, you must be turning 16 years old, and I’m probably not around anymore. But at this very second, as I write this letter to you, you’re barely two.
Ever since you were just a little baby, you’ve saved your biggest smile for me. It’s impossible for me to believe that you’ll never remember me. You see, I’m very sick, and I know I’m not going to be here for much longer, so I won’t see my beautiful baby sister grow up. I won’t be there to help you along in your life. It doesn’t seem fair, and as I’ve watched you these past two years, I feel like I’m going to be cheated out of something incredible.
Two years ago, right before you were born, I found out I have leukemia. The fact that from then on, I would never lead a “normal” life made me want to give up and die. And then Mom came home from the hospital with you. The first time I held you and looked into those blue eyes of yours, I knew that now I had a reason to live. I couldn’t give up now—you needed me. And I knew I needed you. I wanted to see you grow up and help you, be there for you, and, hopefully, be your friend. We had a great start. I’ve spent more time with you these past two years than practically anyone else.
I have to thank you for these past two years you’ve given me. I know I wouldn’t have had them if it weren’t for you. Now I can honestly say that they’ve been two of the best. I’ve fought hard, but I know my time is short. The doctors say it’s amazing that I’ve lasted as long as I have, because I’m in bad shape. But don’t think I’m giving up or that I’m just going to leave you now. Not a chance! You helped me through the roughest two years of my life, so I have something for you that I hope will help you as much as you’ve helped me. It’s in the bottom of my gray strong box. Your name’s on it.
I love you,Brett
After retrieving the key for Brett’s strong box from Mom, I found a package covered with faded wrapping paper covered with lots of once-colorful balloons. The package was addressed to “Kitty—for her 16th birthday. With love, Brett.” With trembling hands, I ripped off the paper and carefully lifted the lid of the white box inside. A scarlet-colored book lay nestled in white tissue paper. Not just any book. It was a journal done by Brett, as if he were talking to me, of the last two years of his life, starting with the day I was born and ending on the day he died. He recorded everything we ever did together, including all of my babyhood milestones, along with his own milestones, as well as his feelings as he struggled with his illness. He also added in a lot of advice for me for when I was older, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell me in person. And on every page, no matter what happened during the day, he never forgot to write, “I love you.”
I was staring at a picture again today, studying it for the hundredth time. In the picture was the image of a dark-haired boy, sitting under a tree, smiling down at a tiny little girl sitting on his lap, laughing up at him. I smiled myself just looking at it. I placed it back on its spot on my dresser, right by the mirror. I had found it in Brett’s journal on my 16th birthday, so I’d framed it and filled an empty space on my dresser with it. I opened one of the drawers and took out the journal, my special journal from Brett, and hugged it. It too had filled an empty space—an empty space in my heart.

A few years ago, an impressive experience helped me realize how important this mental image is to my spiritual development.
All my life I had heard about the rewards of daily scripture study, but had never successfully formed the habit. Then one day I found myself on a committee working with five people who had each firmly established the habit of scripture study in their lives. I noticed their command of the scriptures in solving problems and teaching others. I marvelled at the way they used the scriptures to avoid personal discouragement and to receive counsel. As I watched them I began to imagine how much better my life would be if I had the scripture habit. The next thing I knew, I was studying the scriptures daily.
Forming a good mental image of who we are and what our values are can help determine who we become and how we live. Our self-image helps us define ourselves—and leads us to act accordingly. Mental pictures and ideas precede our every action. They can help or hinder our righteous progression.
Satan, for example, uses the principle to lead people to bondage. If he can lead us to imagine ourselves as innately sinful, we become uncomfortable in church or near righteous people and we withdraw from the ways of the Lord. Having defined ourselves as sinful, without hope or desire for redemption, we seek ways that are comfortable to our perception and persist in sin until we are “bound down by the chains of hell.” (Alma 13:30.)
On the other hand, if we think of ourselves as children of God, we are more likely to act accordingly. As this mental image of ourselves grows and matures, we find ourselves striving for the qualities and traits that are our inheritance from God—gentleness, love, honesty, consideration, and cheerfulness. Liberty, rather than bondage, is the result.
Alma encouraged his people to develop and maintain a righteous self-image. “Have ye received his [Christ’s] image in your countenances?” he asked them. “… Do you look forward with an eye of faith, and view this mortal body raised in immortality, and this corruption raised in incorruption, to stand before God to be judged according to the deeds which have been done in the mortal body? …
“Can you imagine to yourselves that ye hear the voice of the Lord, saying unto you, in that day: Come unto me ye blessed, for behold, your works have been the works of righteousness upon the face of the earth?” (Alma 5:14–16; italics added.)
Alma knew that an important step to helping people try the ways of the Lord is to help them form the mental picture of themselves performing the works of the Lord.
As parents, it is our responsibility to plant these mental images while our children are young, so the images can help guide their behavior.
One of the most profound means of instilling a righteous image in our children is through the use of scripture and family stories. My own image of what I wanted to be began with stories of my great-grandfather, Robert D. Young. He lived to be ninety-five years old and died when I was fourteen years old. But I love the man as much as if he had walked with me and taught me every step I was to take.
I have few recollections of my own concerning him, but I was raised on stories about him. One of my favorites told of how as a young teenager he had hired on with a group of cowboys to run a herd of cattle from Colorado to Texas. During the first few days of the journey, the owner of the herd, a very wealthy man with no family of his own, rode with the group, but then left to attend to other business. As the cowboys made their way to Texas, the other men, all older than grandfather, spent their free time in pursuits that grandfather didn’t consider worthwhile. Instead of joining them, he would find a quiet spot and study mathematics and engineering.
The night before they arrived at their destination, the other cowboys decided they wanted to go into a nearby town and celebrate their safe arrival. They tried to get grandfather to go, but grandfather insisted that he had been hired to tend the cattle, and he would do just that. Later that night, the owner returned to find grandfather alone with his cattle. He was so impressed that he offered grandfather one-half of all he owned if he would become his business partner. Grandfather would have never again wanted for anything, but he refused. He said he just didn’t feel like that was what the Lord wanted him to do.
Many times during my youth I remember thinking, “I want to be just like my grandfather!” Other times I would ask myself, “Now what would grandfather do?” and then act accordingly.
Uplifting stories from family history can help children develop the image of their divine potential. We can further guide them to identify with good examples through phrases such as, “You’re a lot like that,” or “That sounds like something you’d do.” But we must avoid the temptation to preach, or we may lose the effectiveness of the stories.
I’ve come to realize that my grandfather, being human, must have had faults and shortcomings. But no one has ever told me what they were, so I’ve been free to think only of the good. That is one of the secrets of instilling a righteous image in our children. Dwelling on the negative, unless there is an important lesson to be learned, helps no one. But relating the positive creates a mental image that the child can cling to and identify with.
In this same way, our extended family members, or neighbors, teachers, leaders, and others can serve as good examples to the children. A great deal of good is accomplished by verbally identifying the virtues of these individuals and using opportunities for these people to share their faith-promoting stories and testimonies when our children are present.
One evening I watched my daughters’ reactions as a beautiful friend visiting in our home told the story of meeting her husband. Her eyes sparkled as she explained that if she had disobeyed her father as she had been tempted to on that occasion, she would not have been present to meet the man she later married. Like thirsty sponges my daughters drank in her words. The story made a great impression on them. If I had tried to explain the same principle, they might have labeled it “preachy.” But my friend’s enthusiasm, spirit, and love made the experience memorable and helpful.
On another occasion, I shared a hospital room with a delightful woman in her eighties who had broken her hip. Despite her intense pain, she was determined to walk again and was full of faith and optimism. A few weeks after the hospital stay, I took my daughters to meet this good woman and her husband. We had a wonderful visit. They told us many stories of faith and love for the gospel. Now, four years later, the girls still retain an impression of the faith, joy, and love that comes from growing old in the gospel.
While exposing our children to as many positive role models as possible, we realized that two of their strongest examples should be us—their parents. However, like most parents, I often find myself discouraged because my children so easily pick up my faults despite my efforts to preach against them. I know that the very best way to give my children the proper image is to be what I want them to be. One of the greatest helps to doing this is for each marriage partner to use every opportunity possible to build up the other in the eyes of the children.
A wise man once told me that early in his marriage he and his wife realized that bad habits and character traits make themselves prominent because of their unpleasant consequences, while good traits go largely unnoticed, especially by a child who has had little experience with the world. To help their children identify the proper images, this couple determined to point out each other’s virtues to their children at every opportunity.
This little piece of advice is worth gold! For example, as the children and I wait in the car while my husband goes into a gas station to pay for gas, I take the opportunity to say, “Just look at that special man. He’s a man who loves God and tries so hard to keep the commandments.” Other times I am more specific. “Do you know one of the things I love about your father?” I’ll ask as I serve lunch. “I like his tenderness. Did you notice the tears in his eyes yesterday when Sister Jones bore her testimony?”
Not only does this build an image, but in effect I am also saying to the children, “This is what I value; this is what is important to me. These are traits that will make me proud of you, too.”
Another way to define a righteous image for children is to help them understand their patriarchal blessings. These blessings speak of the inheritance that can be theirs, the lineage they are a part of, and some of their promised blessings. Usually there are also phrases which tell of righteous characteristics and traits they possess. As we stress these traits and use them as living descriptions of the child, they can actually become part of the child’s self-image.
Phrases such as “Your Father in Heaven is pleased with you” help the child define himself as being good and accepted.
We needn’t wait until the child gets a patriarchal blessing to stress virtues, however. Nor do we need to limit ourselves to the particular virtues mentioned in a blessing. Parley P. Pratt has said, “An intelligent being, in the image of God, possesses every organ, attribute, sense, sympathy, affection, of will, wisdom, love, power and gift, which is possessed by God Himself.
“But these are possessed by man, in his rudimental state, in a subordinate sense of the word. Or, in other words, these attributes are in embryo; and are to be gradually developed.” (Key to the Science of Theology, 4th edition, Liverpool, England: Albert Carrington, 1877, p. 101.)
Since our children already possess virtuous character traits, our job is to help the child recognize them, allow them to grow, and keep them from being overlooked.
About the time she entered school, our daughter Anissa, who is nick-named Niss, began greeting each day with a negative attitude that affected the entire family. So I started calling her “Happy Niss.” That may seem strange, but it wasn’t a lie because I knew that happiness was and is an innate quality of her spirit.
“Good morning, Happy Niss,” I’d call in my most cheerful voice; and she’d call back, “I’m not happy. I’m just Niss.”
But I persisted in calling her Happy Niss. Things began to ease, but she still had grumpy mornings. Then one night as I tucked her into bed I said, “Do you know what I love, Happy Niss?”
“What?” she asked.
“I love to see that beautiful, bright, big smile of yours first thing in the morning. My whole day goes better when your smile is the first thing I see.”
She didn’t say a word. The next morning I was preparing breakfast when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see straggly haired, sleepy-eyed Anissa with the strangest forced grin stretched across her face.
“What is the matt—” I started, then stopped, remembering my words of the night before. “Oh, that smile!” I cried, and threw my arms around her. “I just know it’s going to be a good day now!” And it was.
The real climax to that experience came in a recent home evening when each of us was asked to describe one trait that made us unique or special. Anissa’s immediate response was, “I’m always happy.” The idea had now become part of her self-image.
Giving our children a righteous image to follow is perhaps one of the most important things we can do for them. If they can imagine themselves as righteous people, their actions commonly follow accordingly.
Ultimately, the image we use to determine our actions must be the image of Christ. As Alma said, “Have ye received his image in your countenances? Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts?” (Alma 5:14.) Before we can lead our children to receive his image, we must adopt that image ourselves. To do this we must read and study the life and teachings of the Savior, sharing what we learn with our children. We must become so familiar with these things that they are not just words—but concepts, ideas, images in our minds of who and what we are.

Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.

It was a beautiful, clear morning in San José Pinula, a small town near Guatemala City. “I can’t wait!” Joshua told his little sister. Today was his baptism day!
After the family arrived at church, Joshua and Papá dressed in white clothes. At first, Joshua felt a little nervous. But Papá held his hand as they walked down the steps into the font, and he didn’t feel so nervous. When Joshua came up out of the water, he had a big smile on his face.
Joshua and Papá changed into dry clothes. Then Papá and Joshua’s uncles and grandpa placed their hands on Joshua’s head. They confirmed him a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Joshua heard Papá say, “Receive the Holy Ghost.”
“I’m so happy!” he said as he gave Papá a big hug.
“Remember the promises you made today,” said Papá. “If you do, the Holy Ghost can always be with you. You’ll never really be alone.”

Eli looked at the pile of homework his friend had dropped off after school. Eli had missed another week of school because of an ear infection.
That evening Eli’s parents came into his room. His mom sat on the side of Eli’s bed and took his hand. “Eli, the doctor thinks you need an operation,” she said.
“What kind of operation?”
“He wants to put tubes in your ears to keep you from getting more infections,” Mom said. “It won’t hurt, and you’ll be out of the hospital in a day.” She squeezed his hand.
Eli trusted his parents. But the idea of having an operation scared him. He thought about the story he had heard in Primary about Joseph Smith. When Joseph was seven years old, the bone in his leg became infected. The infection got worse until the doctor decided that he must remove part of the bone or Joseph might lose his leg or even die.
Eli thought about Joseph’s courage and faith in his father. “Can I have a blessing, Dad?” he asked. Eli knew a priesthood blessing could help him. At the beginning of the school year, Eli’s father had given him a blessing.
“That’s a great idea,” his father said.
Eli’s mother folded her arms and bowed her head. Eli felt his father’s hands on his head. His father’s voice grew in confidence as he blessed Eli that he would not be scared and that he would recover completely.
When the blessing was over, Eli was no longer afraid. “I can have the operation now,” he said.
Three days later he went to the hospital and returned home the next day. The ear infections soon stopped, and Eli quickly made up the schoolwork he had missed.
Eli was grateful that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that he could be blessed through the priesthood.

Inspired by Sister Elaine S. Dalton’s talk “Guardians of Virtue” from the general Young Women meeting last year (see Ensign, May 2011, 121–24), youth of the Eastern Cape province in South Africa decided to carry out a similar activity to demonstrate their commitment to “lay aside the things of this world, and seek for the things of a better” (D&C 25:10). On a windy morning 45 youth and leaders met outside a dance club, symbolizing the world and its values, and walked 22.6 km (14 miles) to the chapel, symbolizing Zion and their commitment to the Lord and His standards.
These young men and women happily marched their way up and down hills, across highways and the town. The youth relied on each other to keep walking despite fatigue and aching muscles. They sang songs, talked about their challenges, and even held onto each other as they crossed roads and climbed steep hills.
“This is very exhausting,” said Zukhanye M., a Laurel, during the walk. “But it is very enjoyable as it helps us bond with our fellow brothers and sisters. This has definitely taught me to try exercise more!”
Whilst their goal was achieved to walk to Zion symbolically, the ultimate goal is to all hold firm to the gospel standards and obtain exaltation, not alone, but together as a ward family.

Last Sunday, Ruby and I attended a sacrament meeting of a ward here in central Salt Lake. The meeting was most interesting because in that ward there is some affluence as well as people who are living in halfway houses. Just before the testimony meeting, a young lady walked up to the bishop on the stand, holding a little baby in her arms, wanting the baby to receive a blessing. The bishop stepped down and took the little baby, and the baby was blessed.
Later on during the testimony meeting, a little seven-year-old boy, with his five-year-old sister by the hand, walked up to the pulpit. He helped fix a little stool there for her to stand on, his five-year-old sister, and he helped her as she bore her testimony. And as she would falter just a little, he would lean over and whisper in her ear, this little loving seven-year-old brother.
After she finished, he stood on the stool, and she stood watching him, and he bore his testimony. She had that sweet expression on her face as she watched him. He was her older brother, but you could see that family love and relationship with those two little children. He stepped down from the stool, took her by the hand, and they walked back down to take their seat.
Near the end of the testimony meeting, when there were a few moments for me to speak, I asked the young lady who had brought her child up to be blessed if she would come up and stand by me, which she did. In the meantime, while the testimony meeting was going on, I asked the bishop, whispering into his ear, “Where is her husband?”
The bishop said, “He’s in jail.”
I asked, “What is her name?” and he told me her name.
She came up and stood by my side, carrying the little baby. As we were standing at the pulpit, I looked down at this little precious baby, only a few days old, and this mother—the mother of that little daughter, who had brought her to receive a blessing at the hands of the priesthood. As I looked at the mother and looked at that precious little child, I wondered what she might become or what she could be. I spoke to the audience and to this young mother about the proclamation that was issued five years ago by the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve—a proclamation on the family—and of our responsibility to our children, and the children’s responsibility to their parents, and the parents’ responsibility to each other. That marvelous document brings together the scriptural direction that we have received that has guided the lives of God’s children from the time of Adam and Eve and will continue to guide us until the final winding-up scene.
As we talked about it and as I looked at that beautiful little baby, I thought of last summer. Ruby and I were up in Idaho for a short visit, and we met some people from Mountain Home, Idaho—the Goodrich family. Sister Goodrich had come to see us and had brought her daughter Chelsea with her. In part of the conversation that we were having, Sister Goodrich said Chelsea had memorized the proclamation on the family.
To Chelsea, who is now 15 years old, I said, “Chelsea, is that right?”
She said, “Yes.”
I said, “How long did it take you to do that?”
She said, “When we were young, my mother started a program in our house to help us memorize. We would memorize scripture passages and sacrament meeting songs and other types of things that would be helpful to us. So we learned how to memorize, and it became easier for us.”
I said, “Then you can give it all?”
She said, “Yes, I can give it all.”
I said, “You learned that when you were 12 years old; you’re now 15. Pretty soon you’ll start dating. Tell me about it. What has it done for you?”
Chelsea said, “As I think of the statements in that proclamation, and as I understand more of our responsibility as a family and our responsibility for the way we live and the way we should conduct our lives, the proclamation becomes a new guideline for me. As I associate with other people and when I start dating, I can think of those phrases and those sentences in the proclamation on the family. It will give me a yardstick which will help guide me. It will give me the strength that I need.”

Alison and Dad chatted about ballet, school, and work as they crossed Topham’s Bridge on their way home. Then Dad asked, “Alison, would you like to go with me to Birchington Ward this Sunday? President Hicks wants me to see how everything’s going there. I also have some interviews there for temple recommends and Melchizedek Priesthood advancements.”
“Just me?”
“Just you. You’re pretty good company.”
“Sure!” Alison was pleased that Dad had asked her. In all the years he’d been on the high council, and now as a counselor in the stake presidency, she’d never gone on a trip with him by herself.
“It’s a good hour’s drive up to Birchington, and I ought to get there a little early, so we’ll need to be ready to leave by 7:30 A.M. You might want to bring along a book or two for company.”
“OK,” Alison agreed cheerfully. She was eager to visit another ward and to spend time with Dad.
By seven-thirty Sunday morning Alison had eaten breakfast, brushed her teeth, dressed in a skirt and jacket Mom had made her, and combed her hair. She had also gathered her scriptures, a notepad, a pen, and two library books.
“You’re really guarding against boredom!” Mom said, smiling as she looked at the bulging shopping bag. She smoothed Alison’s hair and gave her a kiss. “Have a good time.”
Alison pulled out a book as soon as they were on the interstate highway, setting it down occasionally to look at farms and forests. Once they were in Birchington, she put the book away so she could watch for the meetinghouse.
“It’s not hard to spot it,” she remarked as she glimpsed the steeple through some trees. “Most LDS meetinghouses look alike.”
“Yes, they do,” Dad agreed as he parked the car. In the building he knocked quietly on one of the office doors. In a minute a tall, gray-haired man Alison recognized from stake conferences appeared and warmly welcomed Dad with a burst of greetings, comments, and questions.
Alison shifted from one foot to the other, feeling a little awkward. Dad reached out and pulled her close to him. “This is my daughter Alison, Bishop Nightingale.”
Alison politely shook the bishop’s hand.
“So you’re the youngest of the Tanner bunch,” he said. “Nice of you to come. It’s always nice to have visitors. I like to have them speak.” He winked at Dad. “It’s a change for the ward, and it means I don’t have to talk so much.”
Alison looked at Dad and smiled. He was always being asked to talk—so often that he would joke, “I feel like a walking tape recorder! Just plug me in, and I speak. Rewind me every so often, and I’ll even repeat myself.”
Dad and Bishop Nightingale disappeared into the office, and Alison strolled curiously up and down the halls, examined the items on the bulletin board, and then settled down in a chair to read. The foyer gradually filled up with people. Soon Dad emerged from the office and, in between shaking hands and chatting with ward members, told Alison, “Meet you up on the stand.”
The stand? Alison walked slowly into the chapel and up the aisle. She rarely got to sit up front, and she was both excited and apprehensive. It was fun to be able to see all the ward members—but then, they could all see her too!
As she got settled, Bishop Nightingale leaned over and shook her hand again. “Remember what I told you about visitors,” he said.
Alison smiled and nodded, but she didn’t know why he was making such a fuss about it. Dad was used to speaking.
The meeting proceeded smoothly until the bishop introduced the last speaker on the program—and added, “Before our closing song, we’d also like to hear briefly from Alison Tanner, who’s here from New Salem Ward with her father.”
Alison gasped.
“I didn’t know he was going to do that, honest,” Dad whispered, putting his arm around her. “I’ll talk if you’d rather not.”
“I should have guessed,” Alison whispered back, remembering Bishop Nightingale’s comments and his twinkling eyes. Why had she been so quick to assume he’d meant Dad was to speak? She rubbed her hands, suddenly cold and damp, on her skirt. Her heart was thumping wildly. It would be easy to let Dad talk, but if she did, she’d never be able to face Birchington Ward again. “What can I say?”
“You could tell a scripture story or tell something you learned in Primary. And give your testimony. You’ll do OK; you’ve given talks before,” Dad whispered reassuringly.
Just in Primary, not in front of a whole ward! And not without any time to prepare, Alison thought. She pressed her trembling legs together and thought desperately. Primary—scriptures—Nephi! That’s it! We talked about Nephi not too long ago. She quickly opened her Book of Mormon.
“Amen,” the speaker said, and Alison swallowed hard. Dad gave her a reassuring pat, and she stood up. Reaching the podium, she waited while Bishop Nightingale adjusted the microphone. The chapel was a sea of faces—smiling, pleasant faces. Alison took a deep breath and began.
“One of my favorite scripture stories is about Nephi and about how he and his family left Jerusalem.” Alison briefly retold the story, managing to include the most important details. She finished and was momentarily tongue-tied. Primary! she remembered, relieved. “I’m glad I can go to Primary each week and learn about Nephi and other people; and I’m grateful for my teachers and for my family …” She concluded with her testimony, then, still feeling shaky, sat down.
Dad hugged her as the organist began playing the closing hymn. “Fantastic!” he whispered. “You handled it like a real pro!”
Alison leaned against him and whispered back, “I did it! I can’t believe I did it!”
After the meeting everyone on the stand and many people from the congregation congratulated Alison on her fine talk. When the bishop approached Alison, she tried to frown at him, but he looked so cheerful that she couldn’t.
“I was scared to death!”
“Now, now, I warned you. And you did a tremendous job. Next time it will be much easier.”
Next time? Alison thought as she walked down the aisle. Of course, there will be a next time—if not in Birchington or New Salem, then somewhere else.

I was not a very impressive teenager and spent little time serving others. During this time my mother invited me to come with her to visit my great-aunt at a nursing home.

My cousin and her daughter Stephanie accompanied us on this visit. Stephanie was seven or eight years old. As we walked into the nursing home, she waved at everyone she saw. They lit up as if she were handing out sunshine and rainbows. I, on the other hand, avoided eye contact.

When we entered the room that my great-aunt shared with another elderly woman, I did my best to disappear into the background. Stephanie, however, jumped onto my aunt’s bed and began to regale her with stories.

I noticed something about this room. On my aunt’s side were signs of love and family. Pictures and crayon drawings hung on the wall, and flowers adorned a nightstand. The other side of the room was sterile and bare. There were no signs of any visitors; no cards or pictures hung on the wall.

My aunt’s roommate sat alone in a wheelchair and did not acknowledge our presence. She was humming a tune and tapping the arms of her wheelchair, which made me uncomfortable.

Stephanie tugged on her mother’s arm and asked, “Mommy, what’s the matter with that lady?” Stephanie’s mother leaned down and whispered, “She needs love.” I was not prepared for what happened next.

Without hesitation, Stephanie ran over and jumped into the woman’s lap. She then began to tell her stories and ask all kinds of questions. The woman did not answer. Instead, tears ran down her face as she embraced Stephanie. For the next several minutes, Stephanie sat in her lap, stroking her hair and kissing her cheek.

I had never witnessed this type of unselfish love before, and I tried to hide my tears. Later, as we drove away from the nursing home, I marveled at how young Stephanie could be so selfless and so full of love and compassion for a complete stranger.