Gospel Story Finder

Five years ago my husband, Bruce, became seriously ill when we were serving with the consecrated Saints in the Europe East Area. We returned home, and he passed away only a few weeks later. My life changed overnight. I was grieving and felt weak and vulnerable. I pled with the Lord to direct my path: “What would Thou have me do?”
A few weeks later, I was going through my mail when a small picture in a catalog caught my eye. As I looked closer, I realized it was an artist’s rendition of the Samaritan woman with Jesus at the well. At that moment the Spirit spoke clearly to me: “That is what you are supposed to do.” A loving Heavenly Father was inviting me to come to the Savior and learn.

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

One December when I was a child, my mother became very ill. The medication she was taking made her extremely tired, and she slept about 18 hours a day.
Since my mother was single, my older sister and I tried to keep the household running as best we could, but we were young and inexperienced, and we weren’t very successful. Several days into our mother’s illness, we were looking for something to eat. As we searched through the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
A sister from our ward was on the porch, meal in hand. She hadn’t known of our need, but there she was with dinner. She asked us how long our mother had been ill and how we had been coping for so long on our own. We assured her that we were managing as best we could, but we were grateful for her kindness in sharing a meal with us.
When she left our home, this sister called the Relief Society president and informed her of our family’s situation. The next day and for many days thereafter, members of the ward brought meals to our home. We were so grateful! What we didn’t eat right away we froze, and because of our ward’s kindness, our family had more than enough to eat for the next three months. But the kindness others showed didn’t stop there.
Christmas was approaching, and Mom was slowly getting better, but she was not back to her usual self. My uncle came to our home from Copenhagen, about 40 miles (65 km) away, to help with holiday preparations. He was generous in doing what he could, providing a Christmas tree and some food for our family’s celebration. He also bought a few presents for my sister and me. We, in turn, had purchased a few modest gifts for our mother and uncle. We knew we had much to be grateful for, but as children we were still feeling a bit disappointed with how this Christmas was turning out.
On Christmas Eve, our doorbell rang. I looked out the window but couldn’t see anyone. I concluded that it must be a prank, but my sister told me to open the door anyway. On our porch we found a large basket containing food and other necessities as well as some toys. We were sure it had been delivered to the wrong house. We went to the neighbors’ house to ask if the basket should have gone to their home, but they were gone. Then we noticed that all of the gifts were labeled with our names. There were even items for my uncle. Someone had thought about us.
The anonymous generosity shown my family that year made what had been a dark and sad Christmas the best Christmas of my life. The kindness and love we felt from others continue to touch me today.

Mr. and Mrs. Duck had five new ducklings. Their names were Dora, Dolly, Dinah, Daphne, and Harold.
When it was time for their first swimming lesson, Mrs. Duck took them to the pond. She showed them how to float. She showed them how to wiggle-waggle their feet.
“Now,” she said, “away you go!”
And splish-splash! Away went Dora and Dolly.
Splash-splish! Away went Dinah and Daphne.
Glub-glub-glub! went Harold. And he sank straight down to the bottom of the pond.
“No, no, no!” cried Mrs. Duck, as she fished Harold out. “That’s not right at all! You float like this. You wiggle-waggle your feet like this. And away you go!”
And away Harold went, glub-glub-glub! Straight to the bottom again.
It happened the next time he tried to swim, and the next, and the time after that. By the end of the day, poor Harold had seen more of the pond’s bottom than he’d seen of its top.
When Mrs. Duck told him the news, Mr. Duck roared, “Harold can’t swim? Nonsense! You must have been doing something wrong, my dear. Tomorrow I will teach Harold.”
And the next day he took Harold to the pond.
“You float like this,” said Mr. Duck. “You wiggle-waggle your feet like this. And away you go, Harold! Harold?”
“Glub-glub-glub!” said Harold.
By the end of that day, the fish were getting to know Harold very well.
“Hello again, Harold,” they said.
“Glub-glub-glub!” said Harold, on his way to the bottom.
Mr. and Mrs. Duck took Harold to the family doctor.
“A sinking feeling?” said Doctor Quack, as he stroked his chin. “Straight to the bottom, you say? Hmmm!” Then he said, “I can’t find anything wrong with him at all. He’ll learn to swim soon, you’ll see.”
But Harold didn’t learn to swim, not that day, nor the next, nor the one after that.
Harold didn’t seem to mind at all. He practiced floating when his mother asked him to. He practiced wiggle-waggling his feet when his father asked him to.
And sometimes, because he knew his parents were worried, he pretended to swim in the shallow water. But he always kept one foot on the bottom.
Then early one morning, Harold disappeared. Mrs. Duck couldn’t find him anywhere.
She set up a terrible fuss.
“Don’t anyone leave this duck pond!” she shouted. “Someone has stolen my Harold!”
“I saw a duckling in the middle of the pond,” said a frog. “Don’t ask me who he is. All you ducks look alike to me.”
Mr. and Mrs. Duck dived and dived under the water. They found a rubber tire, some rusty cans, and an old boot. But they didn’t find Harold.
“I shall never hear his little glub-glub-glub again!” sobbed Mrs. Duck.
“Glub-glub-glub?” asked a voice behind them.
And there was Harold.
“Harold’s floating!” gasped Mrs. Duck.
“Harold’s wiggle-waggling his feet!” cried Mr. Duck.
“Harold’s swimming!” shouted Dora, Dolly, Dinah, and Daphne.
And he was.
Mr. and Mrs. Duck watched proudly as Harold swam with his sisters.
“Sometimes things just take patience,” said Mrs. Duck.
“Sometimes things just take practice,” said Mr. Duck.
But Harold only smiled.
Little as he was, he had known all along that sometimes things just take time.

On my mission, rejection and failure were as much a part of our everyday lives as eating and breathing. It was easy to expect rejection and anticipate that our investigators would lose interest in our message. But five weeks in one particular city taught me a valuable lesson. It was a city where no one had ever had much success. But someone forgot to tell my companion or me. We got along famously. We worked hard. And we had fun. We met lots of people interested in our message. We had a thriving investigator class each Sunday in this tiny branch. Miracles were happening in people’s lives. And we felt we were just scratching the surface of this golden city.
Why did we have so much success there? I believe the Lord blessed us with success because of our attitude. My companion and I loved working together. We were united. We worked hard. We honestly believed the city was a gold mine just waiting to yield up its treasures. Attitude has a lot to do with faith. Faith has everything to do with success. And faith is contagious.
Unfortunately, I was late in understanding this lesson. I failed to make the connection between the fruits of our labors and the way we labored. Consequently, I was not able to apply this principle as successfully in my next two assignments.
There are probably many other things I would do differently if I had the chance to serve my mission over again, but these four stand out in my mind. If you look at these ideas carefully, you’ll see that they fall within the qualifications the Lord Himself outlined for His servants: “And faith, hope, charity and love, with an eye single to the glory of God, qualify him for the work. Remember faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, brotherly kindness, godliness, charity, humility, diligence” (D&C 4:5–6).

Recently, in handling some souvenirs which I possess, I held in my hand a pocket piece which reminded me of a pleasant experience.
Several years ago, boarding an aircraft in Denver to return to Salt Lake City, having been invited to be a member of the Church Building Committee, I met a member of our staff making the same journey. With him was a gentleman he had chanced to meet. Seated in the aircraft together, we engaged ourselves in conversation. I asked the gentleman about his present occupation. He informed us that he was a building engineer, presently engaged in building a church in one of the larger cities in the state of Texas. He recounted to us some of the frustrating experiences that he and their finance committee had in raising funds from the members of his church; they had tried most everything such as direct solicitations, dinners, bazaars, some games of chance—none of which was very successful.
To solve the financial problem, they called a special meeting. It was during this meeting, he said, that they had come upon a capital idea, after someone had suggested going to the scriptures to try the Lord’s way. The scripture came from Malachi:
“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)
From this the committee conceived a unique idea of getting that message to their members by coining a pocket piece made of copper with a coating to make it appear as a bright gold coin, about the size of a fifty-cent piece, inscribed on one side with the words, “One tenth is the Lord’s” and on the other side, “Bring ye all the tithes and I will pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
These coins, he said, were distributed to the members. The thought was that as the men would reach into their pockets and the ladies into their purses for change, the bright gold coin would be the first item they would see, and it would remind them of their duty. He smiled and handed to each of us the souvenir coin and said: “This was successful! The people have responded and now we are moving ahead with our project.”
As he said that, I thought, “A true principle discovered, properly applied, brings a correct result.”
After some pause, he turned the conversation to us and queried of us as to our present endeavors, to which we replied: “Coincidentally, we too are engaged in building churches, employed by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“How many churches are you building?” he asked.
“At present, a few hundred,” was the reply.
A surprised look appeared on his face. “That’s a lot of buildings! How in the world do you pay for them? Where do you get the money?”
“From our Church membership, and coincidentally again, the great secret you discovered in the principle of tithing has been a tenet of the Lord’s Church from the early days of its restoration,” was the reply.
This afforded an extensive discussion of the great devotion of the Latter-day Saints, not only in paying their tithing, their fast offerings, additional construction funds, temple funds, welfare funds, budgets, missionary funds, etc., but also of their giving much of their free time in Church services, in the administration of and participation in the Church programs. We explained the extensive missionary program and the devotion of our young people to it. He seemed intensely interested, sat back in his seat, and thoughtfully said: “That’s amazing! You must have something we do not have.”

Brother Ayerdis currently serves as bishop of the Brooklyn Second Ward, where meetings are conducted in Spanish. He recalls the day when he took his family to see the judge who would grant them permanent residency in the United States: “Our children sat beside us on the long bench—quiet, like angels.” The judge thought that New York would corrupt the children and said to the family, “What a shame that you had to bring your lovely children here.” Sister Ayerdis responded, “We may have left our furniture, our house, and our clothes behind in our native land, but we did bring our traditions.”

The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my heart and changed my life.

In 2020, my husband and I were looking for money to bring our two sons, Aaron and Moses, back home. They had just completed their studies in Bangalore (India), but our efforts to raise money to bring them home proved to be unsuccessful. So, we decided to leave this matter in the hands of our Lord.
In the course of that very year, the COVID-19 pandemic was rampant in Bangalore, with an increasing rate of infection. We were very worried about our two sons.
On a certain Wednesday evening, after saying my prayer, I felt impressed to hold a fast. I asked my two sons to abide in prayer while I was fasting. I said to them, “My sons, tonight we are going to ask for a miracle that will put the adversary to shame, just as Pharaoh was put to shame as he watched the Israelites go through the Red Sea on dry ground. At midnight, we will wake up, buckle-up, and start praying.” I simply told my husband to wake me up at 11 p.m. under the pretext that I had some work to do. That very night, I read the scriptures, poured my soul in much prayer, and reflected upon our Heavenly Father’s wonders. On the following day, the Lord attended to our request by sending someone to purchase our plot of land. We had been looking for a buyer for the past twelve months to raise funds for the transportation for our sons. Our miracle had happened!

While Joseph was still working for Josiah Stoal, he met a very special young lady, who soon became his wife. Emma Hale was the daughter of Isaac Hale, a local hunter, and Joseph boarded in their home. Emma was seventeen months older than the handsome young man who had come to the town of Bainbridge. Before long, the two young people were deeply in love.

But their romance met with some problems, as Emma’s father became concerned over the stories of Joseph’s having had visions and revelations. Not knowing Joseph very well, Mr. Hale’s suspicions were naturally aroused, and he refused to consent to the marriage. The two young people were genuinely in love, however, and decided that their only recourse was to elope. They were fully of age, Joseph being twenty-one and his bride twenty-two, and they were married on January 18, 1827.

The day seemed long to Tom as he impatiently herded the pigs toward the shed near the stables. When he had been made swineherd he was happy because he felt he was growing up, but he soon discovered that it was often lonely work.
At first he enjoyed beautiful daydreams about becoming a knight and performing great deeds that would make him a hero. But he had grown tired of dreams he knew could never come true.
He was a serf just as his father had been at his death. Tom belonged to the land of the rectory in the village of Lutterworth where he would remain until he died unless his owner freed him.
The warmth of the stable felt good as Tom opened the door to get fresh straw for the pigs. As he passed the dairymaid who was milking, he said, “Give us a sip, please. I’m about to perish from thirst.”
“Open your mouth,” laughed the dairymaid, and she squirted milk into Tom’s mouth until it ran down his shirt.
“Stop yer tomfoolery—wastin’ milk like that—or I’ll give ye both a clout,” shouted Jack the reeve (overseer) as he rubbed down a horse.
Tom noticed that the horse Jack curried was not one belonging to the rectory stables. “Who’s come on the strange horse?” he asked.
“The master, Mr. Wyclif himself,” replied Jack. “You’d better mind yer manners because Master says he’s here to stay this time. And there are others with him for the night. Hurry up, Tom, yer mother wants you in the kitchen to turn the spit.”
Tom sighed and filled a basket with straw and carried it to the pigs. There will be a lot more work with Mr. Wyclif here all the time, he thought. Why didn’t he stay at Oxfordwhere he has been teaching?
Delicious smells and warmth from the fires greeted Tom when he opened the kitchen door. “I’m glad you’re here, Tom,” his mother, who was in charge of the kitchen, told him. “Now be a good lad and turn the spit. It’s too heavy for Hannah and I need her help with these mince pasties.”
Before long Tom felt as though he were being roasted along with the chickens. His arms ached and his stomach growled. He hoped there would be food left after the master and his guests had eaten.
Tom’s mother placed the chickens on a trencher (wooden platter) near the hearth to keep warm and said, “Tom, you’ll have to help the house lads carry the food upstairs and serve it.”
“Has Master left the school for good?” Tom asked.
“He was let out,” his mother replied in a whisper. “Jack says it’s because his ideas on religion are wrong—but that’s not so. I’ve heard he just wants to take the mystery out of religion so simple folk like us can understand the gospel.”
Hours later when Tom was at the kitchen table having his supper, he was still puzzling about what he had heard upstairs. “Mother, would you believe that Master is changing the Bible from Latin into English. He calls it translating. Those other gentlemen will help him. I’ll never forget what Master said: ‘The salvation of a peasant’s soul is as important as the salvation of the king’s soul.’”
“That’s true but I never heard it said so beautifully before. I believe we’re all equal in God’s sight but here among men we are unequal,” his mother answered.
Tom reached for a chicken wing. “But what’s the good of making the Bible into English if most of us can’t read?”
“Well there’s many an Englishman can read,” Mother answered. “Maybe we’ll be able to have it read to us.”
“Do you think I might even learn to read it myself?” Tom asked.
“No, son, I’m afraid that could never be,” she said sadly.
Quick tears of disappointment filled Tom’s eyes and he hurried from the room.
The next morning when he went to light a fire in Mr. Wyclif’s library, the black-robed scholar was already standing at his tall slanting desk. Tom could hear the scratching of the quill pen on the parchment, but the master did not seem to be aware that the boy was in the room.
A few mornings later, Tom found the library empty when he arrived before day-light to make the fire. Laying his armload of wood on the hearth, he lit candles on the table near the desk. He held one up so he could look at the writing on a large sheet of parchment. To Tom it was all just black marks on white, but he enjoyed looking at them just because he knew they were words. Suddenly the word Jesus stood out from the rest. He had seen it often, carved in stone at the foot of a statute of Christ in the church.
He noticed some torn scraps of parchment on the floor. Putting the candle back in the holder, he picked up the scraps. Then he went to the fireplace and rummaged around in the ashes until he found a small piece of burnt wood and hurried back to the desk. With great pains he tried again and again to copy the word Jesus on a scrap of parchment. A broad smile crossed his face when he made the word look almost like the one he was copying. Tom was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not hear the master come into the room and almost jumped out of his skin when a quiet voice at his shoulder said, “You copy well, my son.”
Tom’s cheeks were scarlet when he whirled about to stammer, “I—I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make the fire at once.”
He started toward the fireplace, but Mr. Wyclif caught him by the arm.
“What is your name, lad?”
“Tom Brinton, sir.”
“You do not know how to write, do you?”
“No, sir, I was just trying to copy a word.”
“Do you know how to read?”
“No, sir.”
The old man bent down to look into Tom’s sad eyes. “You would very much like to do both, wouldn’t you?”
Tom looked up into the gentle faded gray eyes of Mr. Wyclif. “Aye, that I would, sir. But I’m the swineherd. The pigs are waiting to be taken to the forest and the reeve will beat me if I’m late.”
“I will go with you and tell the reeve he must find another swineherd. Today you will start learning to read and write at the village school. I need many boys and men to make copies of the Bible, and you have talent for it.”
Tom swallowed hard. “You mean, sir, that you will let me copy words that God has spoken if I learn to read and write?” he asked, not believing such good fortune.
“Yes, lad. People are already clamoring for copies. An eager Englishman came to see me yesterday. Because he had no money he offered a load of hay for a few pages. We’ll never be able to make enough copies for everyone who wants them. Why it takes me a whole day to copy a page. But I should tell you, Tom, that the work could become dangerous. Many of the clergy feel that there is no need for people to read the Bible and that only priests can explain sacred matters. However, I believe it’s the right of all men to read God’s word for themselves.”
Happy days, weeks, and months rushed by for Tom because his time was filled with books and slates and chalk. Finally he learned to write on parchment with pen and ink. Mr. Wyclif had the great hall in the rectory made into a scriptorium like the ones in monasteries. Each boy from the school had his own tall standing desk.
At Christmastime the rectory was gaily decorated with mistletoe and holly. On Christmas Eve the yule log was carried into the large library with the singing of carols. Before a blazing fire Mr. Wyclif read the story of the nativity to all the servants. It was the first time they had heard it read in English and its beauty held them spellbound. After enjoying roasted apples, chestnuts, marzipan, and mince pasties, they thanked Mr. Wyclif and left for their cottages.
Tom stayed to tidy the room. “Sit by the fire, lad,” Mr. Wyclif said. “I would like to have a word with you.”
Tom sat on a stool. The master took a piece of parchment from his desk. “My boy, you know that I have already been on trial twice for my beliefs. It was only because the common people raised such a commotion at the trials in London that I was allowed to go free. Now more trouble is brewing over this work we are doing. The clergy cry aloud that it is heresy to permit the common people to read the holy scriptures in English. They say the sacred book is not for ignorant people. Today the church is full of wealth and greed. I want to urge people to return to the simple life and faith of the first Christians who knew our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But how can people know Christ unless they have a Bible they can read or have read to them in a language they understand?”
Mr. Wyclif sighed heavily and then handed Tom a parchment. “My Christmas gift to you and your mother,” he said.
The boy’s eyes grew wide with surprise as he read the document. It had been made by a man of law and bore the seal of Mr. Wyclif’s signet ring. It stated that Tom and his mother were free. “Why—why—are you giving us this great gift?” Tom asked.
“All the other boys in the scriptorium are freeborn. If trouble comes, they can choose to leave or stay. I want you to have the same privilege.”
Tom rose from the stool in a daze. He could scarcely choke words from his tight throat but finally he managed to say, “I’ll never leave you as long as you need me. Never! I know that every page I copy is a step forward to help other boys like me learn about God.”
The master put his arm around Tom’s shoulder. “You have just given me the finest Christmas gift you could possibly offer—your loyalty to our work. Now go and read the paper to your mother.”

When my great-great grandparents joined the Church in Sweden over one hundred years ago they were faced with a long ocean voyage to America, a train trip from New York to Omaha, and then a trek by wagon to Salt Lake City. But when they boarded the train in New York, they discovered that they were to ride in stock cars that had been used to haul hogs to market—and the cars were filthy and filled with parasitic insects that live on hogs.
Grandmother accepted the inconvenience, but the humiliation was almost more than grandfather could bear. “To think we are no better than hogs,” he complained. Unwillingly he made the trip anyway.
Grandmother was expecting another child, and when they reached Omaha to begin their long trek west, grandfather was concerned about her health and the safety of the baby. The person in charge of the wagon train assured him that there were competent women trained to deliver babies available and that everything would be all right, so they began their journey.
Somewhere on the plains of Nebraska, a healthy baby was born. But a few days later, the three-year-old son got cholera. In the middle of the night, grandfather went to a neighboring wagon to borrow a candle, but was told they couldn’t spare one. This angered him, and he was angry as he sat in the dark with his son’s drooping, feverish body in his arms. The boy died that night.
The next morning the wagon master said they would hold a short funeral service and bury the boy in a shallow grave, apologetically explaining that they were in a dangerous Indian country and didn’t have time to do anything more. But grandfather couldn’t accept this, and insisted on staying behind and digging a grave deep enough so the animals couldn’t get the body.
Throughout the day and into the night he worked, building a strong wood coffin and digging a grave 1 1/2 meters deep in the hard soil. Finally, very tired and sobbing, he buried his son and then walked all night to catch up with the wagon train. He was heartbroken and he was angry—angry at the wagon master for not waiting to give his son a proper burial, and angry at God for “allowing” his son to die. When he arrived at his wagon and expressed his feelings to his wife, she spoke to him tenderly:
“Father, we have to make the best of it. The baby and I are all right and, thank the Lord, the rest of us are well. If we get to our journey’s end without any more trouble, we must be very thankful to our Heavenly Father. We have joined the Mormon Church because we believed it was the only true one and I have faith that it is. We are not the only ones that are having sorrow and trouble on this trip” (from the history of Hakan Hanson).
This wasn’t the end of their difficulties; they continued to suffer serious hardships and adversities throughout their lives. But although they both went through identical experiences, each was affected differently by them. Grandfather became withdrawn, ill-natured, and bitter. He stopped going to Church and found fault with Church leaders. He became trapped in his own miseries, and the light of Christ grew dimmer and dimmer in his life.
On the other hand, grandmother’s faith increased. Each new problem seemed to make her stronger. She became an angel of mercy—filled with empathy, compassion, and charity. She was a light to those around her. Her family moved toward her and looked to her as their leader.

The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

Jan peered into the room. All neutral tones and silence. She stepped across the threshold. Suddenly the walls turned to soft, warm yellow, and the modular arrangement at the far end of the “hospitality sector” blinked on with patterns of fairy tale-like whimsy. Some tinkling, teasing music played softly all around.
Jan was delighted. “How lovely to think that this is me!”
Paul entered the room. The walls now turned slightly rust. Panels opened to reveal textured symmetrical patterns. The music took on a low, slower melody.
Paul smiled playfully at Jan. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Aha! My personality is overshadowing yours.”
There were quick flashes of red all around the room. Loud percussion came and went.
Paul showed surprise. Bright patterns appeared on all sides of the couple. A classical selection with bursting crescendos boomed forth.
“Why, Jan! I’m sorry that stupid comment made you angry.”
Jan was gazing again with wonder at the marvelous constructions around them. She almost expected to hear breathing or feel beating.
Isn’t it eerie Paul? Eerie and exciting!” She paused, deciding which words to choose. “I … wasn’t really mad. But I guess there was a second of resentment or something …” She stopped, glancing to each side, then upward. “And this house picks up those just-barely-there vibrations!”
“Well, you knew I was just kidding, didn’t you?” Paul put his arm around Jan and squeezed her shoulder.
A sudden change around them: pastel flurries, a heavy scent of spring, a Strauss waltz.
Paul jerked his hand off of Jan’s shoulder. It was a reflex movement, as if his fingers had been burned. Both Jan and Paul burst out laughing and the house seemed to laugh with them.
When the comfortable rust-and-gold decor returned, Jan and Paul sat on one of the two stabiles in the sector. Paul leafed through the pamphlet. The two of them discussed the pending decision. The real estate agent was waiting outside. He had told them to take as much time as they wanted. It wasn’t more time they needed, it was more money. The budget would be strained to the breaking point, no question about it. But, oh, the house, this marvelous house! Mirrormood Estates meant not only upper-crust living, it meant lifetime insurance against the deterioration of human relationships through misunderstanding. Jan and Paul, newly married and wonderfully in love, were determined to maintain their open communication, thus fortifying their lives against unhappiness. This house would be a tender touchstone if the going ever did get rough.
“Listen!” Jan pulled at Paul’s arm “What are we doing sitting here? We should be looking around.”
So Jan and Paul explored.
In each “living sector” (as the pamphlet was wont to call the room arrangements), Jan and Paul had fun trying to toss out a variety of feelings and to watch the bouncings. But the newlyweds soon found that the house did not react as readily and as dramatically to conjured emotions. Still, it was so much fun to shout or grimace—or whatever—and to see, hear, and sometimes feel and smell echoes that were more clearly understood than had been the original outputs. Time passed too quickly.
“We’d better get on with it,” Paul noted just as Jan was turning to again review the possibilities of the food preparation sector. “That real estate man will be coming in here to pry us out before long.”
Jan and Paul returned again to the hospitality sector and sat on the stabile closest to the front entrance. They hated to leave the house. Together they looked through the pamphlet. On the last pages of the pamphlet were more explicit descriptions, in quasi-technical terms, of the equipment built into the house: computers to record and decipher even a slight odor of perspiration, a sudden tightening of a muscle, a quick flutter of an eyelid. Diagrams attempted to show the intricate networks of sensors and reactors built into various walls and arrangements. Mathematical data followed.
Jan lost interest. She didn’t care that much about explanations and proof. She knew only that she loved the house. The real estate agent had shown wisdom in simply unlocking the door and telling them to wander through the model home at their leisure. The house was its own best sales agent.
“I love it,” Jan enthused.
“Well, I do too. But we have to look at this from the practical standpoint, you know.”
The house went bland. Too much black and white. There was some kind of clean and crisp electronic music playing. The temperature in the room cooled.
Jan stuck out her tongue. “Ugh!” And there was a waver of greenness, a few droning notes.
Then Jan and Paul found themselves giggling. And surrounded by merry pulsations and wild colors, they decided that, oh, yes, they had to live in the house.
Jan was awake. Her eyes were still closed. It had become a game. Guess what’s out there. Then, bang! Open the eyes! See how close you came.
It was difficult to win in this game. The many computers in the house that worked separately and together made countless environmental expressions possible. And the waking scene was a mixture of the blurring dreams of two people and the crystallizing thoughts of the waker. Jan could inventory her own fading dream glow—whether or not she was able to remember having dreamed. She could note her bent for the day. But how unlikely to be able to wild-guess the dream of someone else. That was the mystery factor: Paul’s dream. But that’s what made the game intriguing.
Hmmm. A trailing melancholy … anticipation of a busy day. And maybe Paul had had a scrapbook-type dream last night.
During the first two weeks after they had moved into the house, Jan and Paul had alternated their waking and sleeping times in order to experience the dream flicker excitement spoken of by so many Mirrormood residents. A couple of those times when Paul had been asleep and she had been awake, Jan had watched with interest very homey and nostalgic happenings in the room. So she would choose a scrapbook-type dream for last night. A vague supposition, but at least something to work with. Jan mixed the ingredients together and decided: A warm plaid on the folio-panel, coordinated wide stripes on the overhead and …
No music!
Jan’s eyes snapped open. All was neutral. She listened carefully. Sometimes the morning audios were very soft. Funny she hadn’t noticed. She usually allowed herself the audio clues. Nothing. A fear was rising from Jan, was rising and dispersing. No reinforcements wrapping all around. The wavers of dismay weren’t being caught and labeled and hung out for display. Jan heard herself emit a strange wail. She reached for Paul.
“Paul! Wake up, wake up! The house is broken!”
The week had been a waiting time—long and blandly tedious. Technicians had come, had checked, had consulted. Nothing was resolved. Nothing was fixed. Jan had had a bothersome feeling of uneasiness with her for most of the weary week. At least, she had supposed it was uneasiness. She couldn’t be sure. It was hard to decide how she really felt. She and Paul had lived in Mirrormood for six months. She had not had occasion for some time to concern herself with careful introspection and then to arrive at conclusions without aid of “outside corroboration”.
The passive house did not now demand attention. Jan was free to look elsewhere. Several times she had caught herself watching Paul surreptitiously. Jan supposed that Paul was equally suspicious of her actions, unsure of motivation and intent. Paul had been quieter this week, had seemed to be spending more time thinking. Jan decided that she felt very uneasy. If only those people would get the house fixed.
Drab. It was so drab. The magic was gone. Too bad there wasn’t a nice yard outside with living plants, a place where she could go for some deep breathing and smiling. Mirrormood houses had only small, hard courtyards. The Mirrormood Development Corporation didn’t concern itself with outdoor life-styles. Geode living, Jan decided. That’s what it was like. All the glory was sealed inside. And now there was no glory. The geode looked like it had been sacked and scoured. The magic was gone.
Jan knew, of course, that not even the intensifiers were working; yet, it seemed that with each succeeding day of house inactivity the house became gloomier. It was as if more and more layers of grayness were being stretched tautly and uncomfortably over the whole. Jan could almost feel a cloudy film hardening on her very skin. She rubbed her arms. Maybe it was just a damp chilliness she felt. The heat, humidity, and ion regulators weren’t working either.
Jan bit her lower lip in thought. How ironic! Now she was reacting to the house instead of the house reacting to her. And it was getting worse and worse. Maybe if she had a good cry she would feel better.
A defiance welled inside her. She let the defiance come out in a glare of her eyes. She wanted to direct the glare toward the very heart or brain or core of this pompous house! But Jan had never been interested enough in the systems of the house to find out if there was a central something-or-other control unit. So she had to be content with pressing the glare up one wall, across the ceiling, and down another wall.
“I’ll decide my own mood,” she threatened to the gray hollowness about her. Jan went to the sleeping sector, grabbed her purse, and left the house.
Jan stood rearranging and reconsidering, moving an orange marigold closer to a purple columbine, adding a few more sprays of baby’s breath. She stood to admire the bouquet, then glanced toward the walls to consider the effect of the two wall hangings. Jan would never have imagined that she, who professed to have quality taste, would have purchased such garish items. But they had been cheap; and, she did like the way they worried the grayness. She hoped Paul would approve. Jan paced back and forth, stopping twice to touch the warmth of the flowers.
She was startled when the door burst open. Paul was not one for bursting into rooms. But there he was, standing too still now. There was an unusual gleam in his eyes.
Jan gestured toward the spots of colors in the room. “I hope you like it. I used money from the food budget, but …”
“It’s beautiful! It’s beautiful! You’re beautiful!” Paul grabbed Jan and danced her around the room.
She certainly hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic reaction. They stopped the twirling in front of the bouquet.
“I wished I could have bought basketful of flowers and bright, plastic doodads to scatter and hang in every room. But I knew we couldn’t afford it.”
“Speaking-of-affording-things.” Paul pranced the statement out. Jan, who had been pushing the flowers into a tighter arrangement, turned to devote her full attention to Paul.
No careful parade of phrases now. Paul let the words tumble happily. The tone was pure joy.
“Do you know that the guarantee contract has been violated? We weren’t repaired within six days. I got a solemn phone call at work today. Do you know we have the option to take possession of a new Mirrormood or to terminate the mortgage agreement? We’re free!”
It was the moment to toss something into the air. But Jan and Paul merely stood looking at one another, smiles of satisfaction on their faces. The smiles stretched to laughter, which propelled them into one another’s arms.
Oh, life was a parade! They could both feel the tingle of confetti-and-balloon time with booming drums and banners unfurling.
Paul kissed Jan. The happy glow Jan felt seemed to light up the gray room. The magic wasn’t gone, Jan realized. It had been inside her, waiting.
“Let’s find a nice, drab, cheap apartment to rent.”
Jan nodded. “Yes. And, oh, please, let’s go looking right now.”
They hurried out of the house, taking the magic with them.

Before my call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I read many times in the Doctrine and Covenants about the council appointed to oversee and disburse sacred tithing funds. The Council on the Disposition of the Tithes was established by revelation and consists of the First Presidency, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and the Presiding Bishopric (see D&C 120). As I prepared in December of 2004 to attend my first meeting of this council, I eagerly anticipated a most remarkable learning opportunity.
I still remember the things I experienced and felt in that council. I gained a greater appreciation and reverence for the Lord’s laws of finance for individuals, for families, and for His Church. The basic financial program of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—for both income and disbursement—is defined in sections 119 and 120 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Two statements found in these revelations provide the foundation for the fiscal affairs of the Church.
In that first council meeting I was impressed by the simplicity of the principles that guided our deliberations and decisions. In the financial operations of the Church, two basic and fixed principles are observed. First, the Church lives within its means and does not spend more than it receives. Second, a portion of the annual income is set aside as a reserve for contingencies and unanticipated needs. For decades the Church has taught its membership the principle of setting aside additional food, fuel, and money to take care of emergencies that might arise. The Church as an institution simply follows the same principles that are taught repeatedly to the members.
As the meeting progressed, I found myself wishing that all members of the Church could observe the simplicity, the clarity, the orderliness, the charity, and the power of the Lord’s own way (see D&C 104:16) for conducting the temporal affairs of His Church. I have now participated in the Council on the Disposition of the Tithes for many years. My gratitude and reverence for the Lord’s pattern has grown each year, and the lessons learned have become even more profound.
I know from firsthand experience that the Council on the Disposition of the Tithes is vigilant in caring for the widow’s mite. I express appreciation to President Thomas S. Monson and his counselors for their effective leadership in discharging this holy stewardship. And I acknowledge the voice (see D&C 120:1) and hand of the Lord that sustain His ordained servants in fulfilling the duty to represent Him.

He has marked the path and made it available for our return to His presence, but an important question we might ask ourselves individually is, How willingly do we accept His interest in our well-being and happiness? This question is at the heart of the following allegory.
William loved all of his many sons and daughters. Each was very special to him. Although he wanted them to stay close to him, he allowed them to leave home for a time so they might answer for themselves who they were and what they were to be. He gave them instruction, blessings, and counsel. He pled with them to accept and keep the rules he had taught them so they might be rewarded for their willingness to learn, to understand, and to act appropriately. He invited them to call often, telling them he would always be there, excited to hear from them.
Having made careful and prudent investments in the past with his own time, intelligence, and resources, William had amassed wealth and influence he now sought to share. He busied himself with carpentry tools, plants, and flowers in preparation for his children’s return. He began to prepare a place for each of them more beautiful than they could imagine. Everything around William glowed with warmth, love, and sunshine, and he smiled as he considered each child’s return and pondered the joy and peace they would all share on his pleasant estate.
Finally the day came when the children began to return. First came Paul and Mary, then Kenneth and Sarah. William had never seen them so happy, and he wept as he took them into his arms and kissed them. Then, to their delight and joy, William gave them a glimpse of the great estate to which they were heirs and helped them realize that what lay before them was only a beginning, that its dimensions and beauty would increase according to their own vision and effort.
“But where are Charles and Thomas, Nancy and Clara?” asked William. The promise to them was the same. Did they not know they needed to follow his simple instructions and persevere?
“Father,” said Kenneth, “they understood in part but really couldn’t see. Some things blinded them. Thomas said he wanted to come, but he was a little too busy; he didn’t even have time for his children. Charles is building an estate; it has a modest beauty, and between that and a booming business, he has time for very little else. Nancy said she’s confused and disoriented and it’s not her fault, but she won’t be coming. Clara’s case is another matter. She said she had kept the rules long enough; she asked that we please leave her alone and said she just wants to be free.”
William sorrowed over these words, for the gift he had offered seemed as marvelous as all eternity. Said he: “How will they even begin to comprehend the blessings of this great gift I have prepared if they receive it not and reject me as the giver? What great joy will have slipped from me and from them!”

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
B. When Tasha is out of earshot, you whisper to Julie that Tasha didn’t want her to come and had made faces at her behind her back. Julie gets very quiet. Your get-together is no fun after that.
Surely you didn’t mean to do that! Won’t you reconsider and choose I?
C. You all three go back to the tire swing and have a lot of fun. After a while, Julie’s mom picks her up and Tasha walks home. You’re glad that she and Julie have become friends too.
This is the end of the story—unless you want to do a little more missionary work. If you do, go to G.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.” She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough. When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.” Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same person as God? How do you know that He doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
F. Julie doesn’t come, because she thinks that your mom changed her mind about your having friends over. You and Tasha have a good time, except that you feel guilty about lying to Julie. Later, Julie finds out that Tasha was at your house, and her feelings are really hurt. Your friendship is never the same. You are sad that you lost a good friend.
You can’t make such a bad decision so soon—repent and go to A.
G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks. “It’s kind of like a health code,” you say. “It teaches us to not smoke, drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And to not do drugs.”
Julie pipes up, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy things.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. It’s kind of like Sunday School in other churches. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs, too, and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days every so often.”
“Yeah,” Julie chimes in, “it’s all really neat! Would you like to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?”
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it just feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.” (The End)
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
J. Julie gets tears in her eyes and doesn’t say anything. Tasha says, “Thanks a lot, Big Mouth,” and goes home. You and Julie have fun playing, but you get a knot in your stomach when you think about Tasha’s angry eyes. The next day in school, Tasha won’t even speak to you.
Not again! Aren’t you glad that this is just a story? Change your choice to E.

In March of 1832, Rebecca again provided invaluable aid to the Prophet when a mob burst into the John Johnson farm in Hiram, Ohio, and brutally assaulted Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon. After beating Sidney senseless and attempting to pour poison down Joseph’s throat, the mob tarred and feathered the Prophet. When Emma Smith saw her husband, she thought the tar was blood and fainted.5 Rebecca and Frederick spent that night peeling tar from Joseph’s bleeding and torn body and caring for the Smith children. Their succor was helpful, as Joseph found the strength to preach the next morning.

Although temple marriage is associated with eternal promises, a husband and wife need not wait for eternity to experience the blessings of celestial marriage. Many temporal blessings also come from preparing for and being married in the temple. About eight years ago, Lee Hing Chung of Hong Kong lost an arm in an industrial accident. As a result, he also lost his job and became sick and despondent. But today faith fills his heart as he contemplates being sealed in the temple with his wife, Kumviengkumpoonsup, and their children.

“Before we joined the Church,” he says, “I was primarily concerned with making money. Now I have different priorities. … I am so grateful that we are together and that we can be together forever. … The presence of the temple reminds me to be good, to be disciplined, to be worthy” (quoted in Kellene Ricks Adams, “A Dream Come True in Hong Kong,” Liahona, March 1997, 38).

Two enthusiastic young women of the Modbury Ward, Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, entered the Junior Miss South Australia Quest and achieved great results. The Quest is an annual affair held to raise money for research for the Epilepsy Association of South Australia.
Debbie Johnson, 14, and Sandra Moore, 15, put in many long hours in raising funds. Their families and friends were supportive and helpful.
Debbie placed third in her age-group and Sandra took first place.