Gospel Story Finder

During a period when I was preparing to be shipped to Northern Ireland, a new recruit joined my platoon, as my replacement. The thing I remember most about him was that he was always very calm and I used to wonder how he could be like that, in the midst of what our work entailed. Every morning he would put a book called The Book of Mormon on his pillow. I did not know what it was about, and my departure prevented me from learning; I never saw him again. Fast forward to the year 2000. I was trying to recover from the loss of my mother, when, following a prayer to God for peace and comfort, a few days later, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints knocked on my door. That was when I became aware of the content of The Book of Mormon. Following in-depth discussions, I made the decision to be baptised and so began my new life in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

When she first heard the restored gospel in Chester County, Pennsylvania, where she was born on July 29, 1831, Mary Jane Dilworth knew it to be true. Her family and many of their friends and neighbors also believed the teachings of the elders. All were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, the Dilworths traveled to Illinois to join the Saints preparing to leave Nauvoo and journey west. When the Dilworths arrived, they found that many Church members had already been forced to leave the city. Helped by her three married sisters and their husbands, Mary Jane and her family soon set out across Iowa for Council Bluffs (Winter Quarters) on the Missouri River.
At first, the younger children enjoyed running and playing alongside the wagons as they traveled through the tall grasses, but when the weather changed and they had to stay in their wagons, boredom set in. Fourteen-year-old Mary Jane decided to entertain them by pretending to be their school teacher. She sang with them, told them stories, and taught them spelling and arithmetic. The time seemed to fly. Part of every day from then on was spent “playing school.”
After they arrived at Council Bluffs, Mary Jane found herself appointed nursemaid to about a dozen young children. She did the same thing that had worked so well on the trail. She began amusing them with rhymes and pictures (drawing with charcoal on the tailgates of wagons) to teach them their ABCs. She sang songs, told stories, and played games.
One day Brigham Young paused to listen. He was impressed with her manner and with the attention she received from the children in her care. Months later, when he had led the first pioneer company to the valley and was returning to Winter Quarters for another group, he passed the company Mary Jane was traveling west in. After again observing her teaching the children, he said, “Sister Dilworth, … I have a special mission for you. As soon as you reach the city, I want you to start a school for the younger children. Let any who wish to, attend, and encourage all to do so. And God bless you.”
Two weeks and three days after arriving in Salt Lake Valley, on October 19, 1847, Mary Jane Dilworth, then sixteen years old, welcomed children to the first school in the area that would later be Utah.

“We knew quite early that Shawn would be good in basketball,” says Reiner. “I played ball with some men in the ward early mornings at the stake center. I asked Shawn if he would be interested in coming along. He went with me many mornings to the stake center and played with the adults when he was only eleven or twelve years old.”
Some time in his early teenage years, Shawn first beat his Dad in one-on-one basketball competition. “I don’t remember when it happened. When Dad would win, it would make me feel bad, so the next time, he’d let me beat him. I never really knew when I actually could beat him.”

Last summer, our youngest son returned home from his mission to Warsaw, Poland. We missed him so much, but he learned things Sister Hobbs and I could not teach him at home. On the day he reported his mission, I could see how much he had matured. I was so glad he was home. I felt a little like our Heavenly Father must feel about us. He wants us to come home. Our salvation is His work and His glory. And Brothers and Sisters, we can trust Him for He knows how to do His work. (2 Nephi 27:21)

Eddie’s heart thumped with fear as the small group of Scouts huddled in the cold rain listening to instructions. They were told to fan out and search ravines, thickets, and the narrow creek for an elderly man who had wandered away from a nursing home early the day before.
Why do they call it a search party, Eddie wondered as he listened. A party is fun, but there’s nothing fun about this!
“The man is feeble and may have lost his coat and shoes by now,” the leader continued. “He could be lying somewhere too weak to call out for help. We’re working against time in such wet weather. That’s why we asked your troop to help. Let’s get started!”
The boys quickly fanned out as they had been told to do. At first they were careful to keep each other in sight, but as Eddie moved from side to side searching clumps of shrubs and waist-high weeds, he suddenly found himself alone.
Hiking a rugged trail with a group is fun, he thought as he struggled along, but this is hard work.
Sometimes there was a ditch on his right and a thicket on his left, and Eddie had to search both. With all the zigging and zagging, several holes had been snagged in his poncho, and his clothing felt wet and cold as it clung to his body. His pant legs were caked with mud, and each boot seemed to weigh five pounds.
Finally Eddie sat on a damp log to rest and clean his boots. At first he was just plain tired of the whole thing. Then he began to think about the old man who had been out in the storm for more than twenty-four hours. Suddenly Eddie was ashamed of thinking only about himself and hurrying to get the search over so he could go home where he would be warm and dry.
“I really didn’t look very carefully along the creek back there because of the thorns and mud,” he admitted to himself. Eddie shuddered at the thought that in his hurry he might not have seen the old man lying out in the storm.
Eddie shifted his pack, picked up a heavy stick to use as a staff, and started to backtrack along the slippery rocks that lined both sides of the narrow stream. His legs ached with fatigue as stones slipped and rolled under his muddy boots, but he was grateful for the support they gave his ankles. He wondered if the old man had good shoes or had left the home wearing only light slippers.
Now all the boy could think about was that someone was lost out in the storm. As he rounded a curve, there was a flash of red and his heart began to pound.
Racing on down the creek, he saw a man huddled under a rock ledge on the other side! Eddie’s first thought was to shout for help. But then he realized that, if startled, the man under the ledge might fall and be hurt or try to run away.
Suddenly Eddie remembered the owl hoot signals his troop had learned. Three hoots wouldn’t mean anything to the others, but they would bring one of the Scouts.
Climbing the slippery bank to the trail, Eddie backtracked a few hundred feet and signaled. There was no answer to the first two calls, but when his straining ears caught a faint answering “whoo” after the third call, he walked back to where he could watch the man and give low signals to guide the others to the spot.
The old man rolled over once. Then he sat up and listened to the owl calls.
Soon another mud-streaked Scout appeared in the ravine. Signaling him to remain silent, Eddie hurried down the slope as quietly as he could and explained that he had found the lost man.
“Hurry and bring help,” Eddie said, “but don’t start shouting for help until you’re far enough away so he won’t hear you. We’ll have to be careful not to scare him or he might try to run away.”
When he was alone again, Eddie crossed the creek and started toward the elderly man. Whistling and splashing along in the shallow water, he pretended to be surprised when he saw someone huddled on the overhanging ledge. “Hi!” he called. “Would you like to share my lunch?”
When Eddie took sandwiches and a thermos bottle out of his pack, he saw that hunger and eagerness replaced the fright in the faded blue eyes. But the old man remained silent as he reached out a trembling hand to accept the food and milk. Eddie took a blanket from his pack and draped it around the frail figure.
There was plenty of food, but Eddie had such a lump in his throat that he could hardly choke down even half of a sandwich. All he could think about was how he had almost gone on and left the poor old man.
“I went for a walk and got lost,” the man explained after he had finished eating. Then he pulled the blanket around himself like a tired child and fell asleep.
Almost before he knew it, Eddie was surrounded by other searchers who were eager to help. Soon the men in charge carried the old man away on a stretcher, and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.
It was still storming and he was wet and cold and tired, but somehow Eddie felt so warm and good that it seemed almost as if the sun were shining!

Even their camping trips have a way of turning into adventures. One winter they decided to camp on top of Storm Mountain, a peak that can be reached only after a long hike. They left Christmas afternoon, camped on the lower slopes the first night, and pushed on up the mountain the next morning. At first they mushed through the deep powder on snowshoes, but soon it became too steep for the snowshoes, and they floundered on up the slopes on foot, their legs knotted into painful cramps. When they finally made it to the top of the mountain late that afternoon, they pitched their tent hurriedly because their transistor radio warned of a heavy storm.

They hadn’t been inside the tent long when the storm hit with winds up to 70 miles per hour and an impenetrable wall of icy snow. The tent, which was anchored firmly to some trees, was blown up like a balloon, and ice whipped through it.

“My feet were so cold that there was ice from my left sock stuck to my big toe,” Bennett remembers. “I had to peel the sock off and got frostbite.” Kevin traded his drier pants and socks for Bennett’s frozen ones to prevent further frostbite.

Later that night the radio announcer predicted three days of heavy snow, with travelers advisories out even in the valleys. They knew it would be much worse on top of the mountain, so they decided to leave the first thing in the morning while they still had a chance. It was a long night.

“I could hardly sleep that night because my feet were throbbing, thawing out,” Bennett says, and Kevin adds, “There must have been a wind chill factor of 50 below. I’d stick my hand out the door to check the thermometer, and when I’d pull it back in, I couldn’t move it for a long time.” They were also running low on fuel for their stove, which they had to keep burning all night because of the cold. As soon as they were sure it was morning, they threw their tent in a backpack, dug their snowshoes out of the snow, and started down the mountain. “You couldn’t even see your arm in front of you,” Kevin recalls. “It’s a good thing we knew the mountain so well.”

It was hard going, and before long they were utterly exhausted. “I can remember many times falling through the snow up to my neck and thinking, ‘I’m just going to die here,’” Bennett says. “Finally we were crawling more than walking.” To make matters worse, the snowfall was so heavy that as they got lower down the mountain the snow seemed to get deeper rather than shallower. “It’s a strange feeling,” Bennett says, “to be alone up there and know that everyone else is safe down below in his warm house.” Fortunately their way was mainly downhill, and finally, utterly spent, they arrived at their car and were able to get home. They gained a little more caution from the experience but lost little enthusiasm. It wasn’t long before they were spending the night in some snowcaves they dug on a mountainside.

Billy Parker kicked aimlessly at the dusty path with his bare foot. “There’s nothing to do,” he complained. “The fish aren’t even biting today.”
“No luck?” questioned his grandfather who was sitting against an old tree stump whittling and whistling softly to himself.
Billy shook his head. “What are you doing, Grandfather?” he questioned.
“I’m making a willow whistle.”
“Would you show me how?” Billy asked, his eyes lighting up.
“Sure,” Grandfather answered. “When I was a boy I made dozens of these in all different sizes. But kids today don’t seem to make them anymore.”
“I guess they’re like me and just don’t know how, but I’d like to learn,” said Billy.
“Well, now,” said Grandfather, “all you need is a straight branch from a willow. This one came from the old tree hanging over the pool where you were fishing today. Let’s cut off a piece four inches long, making sure it’s smooth and free of leaf scars. It should be about as thick as your middle finger and a bit thinner at one end for the mouthpiece.”
“You mean I can make one right now?” asked Billy excitedly.
“Why not?” Grandfather said and winked. “The sap is running now and has softened the willow bark so it’s the best time to make a whistle.”
“Take this knife and whittle a thin, slanting slice off the thinner end and square the point off to make the mouthpiece,” Grandfather instructed.
Billy made a neat whittle and cut the point off nice and straight.
“Now,” Grandfather continued, “turn your stick over and make a notch through the bark one-half inch from the end of your stick opposite your whittle (Fig. 1).”
Then, Grandfather told Billy to make a circle cut just through the bark and about three inches from the mouthpiece end, being careful to cut no deeper than the bark. Next he showed Billy how to tap the bark gently on all sides with the knife to loosen it without cracking it (Fig. 2).
“The bark should twist off in one piece since the sap has made the inside of the bark slippery,” Grandfather explained.
Billy did as Grandfather instructed and the bark came off in a single piece.
“Fine, boy! Fine,” praised Grandfather. “Now you need a sound box.” He told Billy to lengthen the notch in his wood about an inch and deepen it to about half the thickness of the wood (Fig. 3).
“Next you need an air space to blow through,” Grandfather said. “So shave a thin, flat slice from the end of your notch to the mouthpiece end of the stick. Completely wet the stick all over and slip your bark cylinder back on. It won’t sound like a police whistle or make a loud blast either, but a willow whistle makes a soft, haunting sound like the song of a springtime bird.
“When I was a boy we tried to make them as small as we could. One time I made one only an inch long.”
Billy placed the whistle to his lips and blew, and a high, thin note sounded. He thought he had never heard anything so exciting.
“Thanks, Grandfather,” he said and ran off whistling like the Pied Piper.

When I was a little girl, comic books were treasured items. When we went on a family vacation my mother allowed us each to buy a new comic book to take along. I always chose either an Archie and Veronica or an Uncle Scrooge. Although Uncle Scrooge (Donald Duck’s rich uncle) was the prototypical tightwad, I loved the frames that showed him diving into his coins. Does anyone here remember the artist’s rendition?

At least once—and usually on the last page, he would go into a room that was essentially an indoor swimming pool, but instead of water, the pool was filled with his money. With an expression of absolute delight and happiness Uncle Scrooge would bounce on the end of the diving board and then dive into the money, swimming around in it—loving the absolute abundance of it all! That’s the way I feel about my blessings. There are so many we all revel in. Abundance with a capital “A.” Remember that in God’s world there is enough and more for everyone. Ultimately we can each inherit all that the Father has. Interesting math, isn’t it? That we each get everything that He has.

In June 1830 the Prophet went to Colesville, New York, to preach and baptize. When he arrived he found that believers in the area had prepared several of their friends for baptism. After the baptisms, a meeting was scheduled that evening for confirming the new members.
As the people began to gather at the designated time, Joseph was arrested “on the charge of being a disorderly person, of setting the country in an uproar by preaching the Book of Mormon.” However, the constable experienced a change of heart, apparently after getting to know the Prophet:
“The constable informed me, soon after I had been arrested, that the plan of those who had got out the warrant was to get me into the hands of the mob, who were now lying in ambush for me; but that he was determined to save me from them, as he had found me to be a different sort of person from what I had been represented to him.”2
Although he had a duty to take his prisoner to court, the constable kept his word to protect Joseph from the mob. The would-be attackers surrounded the constable’s wagon on its way out of town. Before they could assault Joseph, the constable thwarted the attempt by whipping the horses and driving the wagon past them.
That night the two lodged in a tavern. The constable gave Joseph the bed in the room and slept on the floor with his feet against the door and a loaded musket by his side, because, Joseph said, he had “declared that if we were interrupted unlawfully, he would fight for me, and defend me as far as it was in his power.”3
The next day Joseph was acquitted, and he and the constable parted as friends.

This is a silly example but humor me: when I was in graduate school, we had a group of friends who played flag football every Saturday. We had some great athletes on that field, and the competition was often fierce. One winter, my friend and I decided to train every day and be ready to “shock” our buddies with our increased speed and athleticism. Several times a week, we met to run sprints, perform plyometrics, and practice other drills. After months of preparation, our excitement to play was built up. And it paid off! My friend had a “rival” on the other team. They lined up against each other, and it was so fun to see the surprise on the rival’s face when my friend blew past him with shocking speed!

Several years ago, I met a friend for lunch. We hadn't seen each other for many years. During my high-school and early-college days, he had been one of my closest friends. We did everything together. We knew each other very well. He was one of the strongest and most committed young men I knew. We attended seminary together, played sports together, and prepared for missions together. We attended the University of Utah, and we left for missions a few months apart. He married a very talented and wonderful woman from my stake.
As the years passed, our lives took different courses. We moved to different cities. But, as is often the case, we eventually lost touch with one another (this was before Facebook). I still remember how stunned I was to hear that he and his wife had left the Church. Of all those I knew in my youth, he was the very last one I would ever have thought would leave the Church. But there we were, sitting in a small café having lunch.
We reminisced over the friendship that had meant so much to both of us. We laughed again at some of the crazy experiences of earlier days. We talked about our families and tried to close the gap of time. Finally, I asked the obvious question: "Tim," I said, "what happened? You were so deeply converted and committed! Why did you leave the Church? What caused you to walk away from your temple covenants? Have you also left the Savior? We promised one another that we would be true and faithful to the end of our lives! What happened?"
"Kevin," he replied, "I simply see things differently now. My view of the Church and its teachings has changed. I don't hate the Church--I just don't need it anymore."
As we concluded our visit, I expressed my love and gratitude for a friendship I still value. Then, with deep feeling, I expressed my testimony. "Tim, I know these things are true. And you know they're true too. You have always known. You've simply lost the clarity you once had. But you can regain the light and understanding of the Holy Ghost you once had again. Please come back." As we embraced, he whispered, "I admire your conviction and passion. But how can you be so sure?" As I walked away, I reflected deeply on the impact of the choices we had made on our own lives and the lives of our children and grandchildren.

May I share with you an experience that took place on the island of Okinawa in the Servicemen’s District? As the local Okinawan members were excitedly preparing to go to Tokyo, which is nearly 900 miles away, for the area general conference, the young people of the Servicemen’s Branch found out that an active young Okinawan family was not planning to go with the rest of the branch. When approached and asked why he was not going to conference, this faithful brother hesitantly replied that he just could not afford to take his wife and children at this time; it was out of the question.
The young people of the Servicemen’s Branch immediately met and planned a cookie sale project to raise funds necessary to send this family to conference. The young people baked cookies in their parents’ homes; later when they were busily engaged in selling these cookies, they were pleasantly surprised when they approached the servicemen to purchase their cookies, explaining the purpose of their project. Without hesitation the servicemen all bought cookies and donated money in excess of the purchase price, so that the young people could reach their goal. The happy result was that this young Okinawan family was able to go to Tokyo to conference with the rest of their branch, because of the help they received.
The young people of the Servicemen’s Branch all learned a great lesson in giving and loving; they learned through experience that persons who really care for others and who give some of their time, talents, and belongings for the good of others are the ones who really receive the fullest blessings of life.

Something happened to me that I found of great help to me, and it may be of help to you. A memory was replayed in my mind. It was of a hotel ballroom in New Brunswick, New Jersey. We were in the New Jersey District, a single district that covered the whole state.
There was no building, no gym, no stake center, and so we traveled to a hotel ballroom for what must have been a district conference. I was sitting on a folding chair somewhere near the back, next to my mother. I must have been very young because I can remember putting my legs through the back of the chair and sitting aft instead of forward. But then I remember hearing something—a man’s voice from the pulpit. I turned around and looked. I still remember that the speaker was at a rostrum set on wooden risers. There was a tall window behind him. He was the priesthood visitor. I don’t know who he was, but he was tall and bald, and he seemed very old to me.
He must have been talking about the Savior or the Prophet Joseph, or both, because that was all that I remember much of hearing in those days. But as he spoke, I knew that what he said came from God and that it was true, and it burned in my heart. That was before scholars told me how hard it was to know. I just knew of certainty—I knew it was true.
You can have that same confidence, not of yourself, but from God. He lives, and He communicates with His children. This is the Church of Jesus Christ, and He leads it. No assignment in it need ever overwhelm you if you know that and listen for the Master’s voice.
Now I can hear the young deacons saying, “Well, now, that may be fine for you, but surely you don’t think that’s going to help me in my assignment down here in this deacons quorum.” Oh yes, I do. I was a deacons quorum adviser. A boy, the president, presided in the meetings, and I taught the lessons out of the scriptures and out of the manual.
Illustrations by Ben Sowards
I remember one boy in the quorum had to miss a few meetings, and so he sent his brother to the class with a tape recorder. His brother recorded our meeting and took it home. It happened more than once. When the deacon came back, I asked him why. I don’t remember his words, but I remember that it was clear he knew what I knew. God was trying to speak to that deacons quorum. The boy wasn’t anxious to have a tape recording to hear me; he was trying to hear God. He knew where to listen and how to hear.
He’d read the scriptures for us in class, and I knew he knew them and loved them. And so, even when I wasn’t teaching very well, by the power of the Holy Ghost and from knowing the Master’s voice in the scriptures, he could hear what he needed to hear. The memory of that black recorder with its tape turning will always remind me of the scripture which says, “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear” (Matthew 11:15).
I spoke at his funeral just a few years later. He lived about as many years as the Prophet Joseph had lived when he saw God the Father and Jesus Christ in the grove. My deacon hadn’t seen a vision, but he had heard the voice of God through His servants in a deacons quorum. He wanted to hear, he knew how, and he had the faith he could. Like the boy prophet Joseph, he knew the heavens were open.
You and I can take confidence in that assurance. If you and I will study the scriptures and pray and tune our hearts and ears, we will hear the voice of God in the voice of the people that He has sent to teach and guide us and direct us. You and I can take confidence in that assurance for the Church itself. However large the kingdom will grow (and it will fill the earth), you will not ever feel lost or forgotten, and you need never feel overwhelmed. God will call people to care about you and to teach you. And if you will listen and hear the voice of God, the kingdom will roll forth to its appointed place, ready for the coming of the Master.
None of us can see now all the wonders of technology and organization and buildings that God may give us; but you, just you, hearing the voice of God through your teacher and leader, will always be at its heart.
I testify that God loves His children and can tell us what is true. I pray that we all may have ears to hear, that He may guide us.

In the last several months we have had the privilege of helping a lovely young mother come into the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. She was looking for truth. She was looking for direction and she was looking for inner peace. In the mission field we know that the good people of the world are looking for the truth. That description of our new friend fit. Until she began a daily habit of reading the words of the Lord she felt confused, even frightened.
Before her baptism she found the church distribution center, which was at some distance from her home, and purchased her own leather bound scriptures. My husband and I will never forget the confidence and the light she brought into our home as she proudly carried her own inscribed burgundy scriptures. She told us each time she read, she felt a sense of calm, a sense of peace. She and the prepared sister missionaries rejoiced together as the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was taught by the Spirit of truth, the Holy Ghost.
“Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together.”
The change in Christina was her reception of the light of truth through the Holy Ghost. We could see it grow each time we were together.
“That which is of God is light and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light brighter until the perfect day.”[12]
“And all thy children [and Christina was certainly one of them] shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children.”[13]

When I was a young man, one of the things I aspired to was to go on a mission—a dream that I think is a worthy goal for any young man or woman in the Church. At that time, missions weren’t emphasized in the same way that they are today; I was the youngest of six children, and I am certain my family was an important factor in my decision.
So I think my heritage in the Church influenced me deeply as I made my decision, but it was not the only factor. I had already begun my college education when I was interviewed by the bishop relative to going on a mission. In addition, I had previously received a very flattering and tempting offer: an appointment to the Naval Academy at Annapolis where I knew that I would receive one of the finest educations available at that time. I remember sitting down in my room and thinking, “Well, Frank, where do you want to go? Where will Annapolis take you? And where will a mission take you?”
Fifty-five years later and with a testimony much strengthened by a lifetime of experiences gained by serving the Lord, I know that I made the right decision and have frequently been grateful to my Heavenly Father that I had enough faith in Him and enough love for the Church that I was willing to make that decision.

Last February I saw this joy personified as I accompanied the missionaries in Santiago, Chile, to visit some of their converts. At the Basuare home, eight-year-old twin boys, Nicolas and Ignacio, met us at the door, dressed in white shirts and ties, just like missionaries. Their father had been baptized three weeks earlier, and the following week he baptized his wife and sons. We talked of their conversion. They shared their feelings of love for the missionaries and the joy they were experiencing in living the gospel and keeping the commandments. They proudly showed us the picture of the Santiago temple displayed in their living room, a symbol of their goal to become an eternal family one year from the date of their baptism.

I asked Nicolas if he would like to be a missionary when he grew up. He answered yes, and we shook hands on the promise that he would prepare for the day. Then I asked Ignacio the same question. He hesitated and replied, “I’m not sure I can make that promise. I’m only eight years old.” I persisted, “Nicolas made the promise. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?” He still hesitated and said, “I don’t know if I could be ready.” I could see I had taken on more than I could manage, so I said, “Perhaps you’d better talk this over with your father.”

He went to his father, who took him in his arms and said, “Ignacio, Jesus was a missionary. He walked the streets like Elder Sheets and his companion and made the people happy by teaching them to keep the commandments. Wouldn’t you like to be like Jesus?” “Yes, Papi, I would.” “Do you think if we work together, you can be ready to be a missionary when you are nineteen years old?” “I think so.” “Wouldn’t you like to make the promise to Elder Mickelsen that you will do that?” He came to me, and we shook hands to confirm the promise. I marveled that this young father, a convert of just three weeks, could be so sensitive in helping his family follow the Savior and how he emulated the missionaries in teaching his son. Their goal of becoming an eternal family will surely be reached under the guidance of this faithful father.

Recently, I visited the mother of a large family, whom I have known and admired for many years. I have watched her children grow and develop. Education, missions, temple marriages were all part of their program. I asked her what was the secret of her success. Modestly, she told me that success had not yet been achieved, that life was a continual series of tests and challenges. But she did indicate that keeping close family ties had been very important in their lives.

She said, “We have recognized that each family member needs to be treated with dignity and respect. Though the capabilities and talents of each are different, each needs to know he or she is a child of God, loved by Him. We hold regular family conferences (even after the children are married). We feel since the Church has general conference for the edification and instruction of the saints, we need to have family conferences for the same purpose. The have truly strengthened the love in our family.”

President Heber J. Grant recognized the role of BYU in providing teachers for the Church educational system. In the depths of the 1930s depression, financial pressures caused the First Presidency to announce the closure of all Church schools, including Brigham Young University. In a meeting following the announcement, a key member of the Brigham Young University Board of Trustees asked President Grant who would provide teachers for the Church. After a moment of reflection, the president reversed his decision regarding this institution. Most other Church schools were closed or given to the public sector. From the beginning, the mandate was clear. Brigham Young University’s role was to build testimony, prepare students for their work in the world, and provide teachers and leaders for the Church.

Years ago my ward in Tennessee used a high school for church services on Sundays while our chapel, which had been damaged by a tornado, was being repaired. A congregation of another faith used the same high school for their worship services while their new chapel was being constructed.

I was shocked to see what the people of this other congregation wore to church. There was not a suit or tie among the men. They appeared to have come from or to be on their way to the golf course. It was hard to spot a woman wearing a dress or anything other than very casual pants or even shorts. Had I not known that they were coming to the school for church meetings, I would have assumed that there was some kind of sporting event taking place.

The dress of our ward members compared very favorably to this bad example, but I am beginning to think that we are no longer quite so different as more and more we seem to slide toward that lower standard. We used to use the phrase “Sunday best.” People understood that to mean the nicest clothes they had. The specific clothing would vary according to different cultures and economic circumstances, but it would be their best.

As bishop of our ward, I encouraged parents to give their children opportunities to teach in family home evening. My wife and I decided to do as I had said.
Our son taught first, and we enjoyed his lesson on prayer. The next Monday was our daughter’s turn. She had been baptized only a few months before. Her topic was God’s creation. She asked a series of questions, which we answered in turn. She then bore her testimony and concluded.
My son exclaimed, “You’ve not taught us yet; you were only asking questions.” But I told my family that I had been moved when my wife, answering one of the questions, said that she is grateful to God for creating family units and giving her a wonderful family with a loving husband. I told them that my heart was full of gratitude when my youngest daughter answered the question “Who created the world?” by exclaiming, “Jesus.” I found many other answers overwhelming in their insightfulness.
So even though my daughter did not “teach” as my son expected, her lesson—and others my children have taught—are my favorite family home evenings.
Richard Ikpegbu, Nigeria