Boyd K. Packer

October 2004
Some years ago, as president of the New England Mission, I left Fredericton, New Brunswick. It was 40 degrees below zero. As the plane taxied away from that small terminal, I saw two young elders standing outside, waving good-bye. I thought, "Foolish boys. Why do they not go inside where it's warm?"
Suddenly there came over me a powerful prompting, a revelation: There in these two ordinary young missionaries stands the priesthood of Almighty God. I leaned back, content to leave the missionary work for that entire province of Canada in their hands. It was a lesson I have never forgotten.
Eight weeks ago Elder William Walker of the Seventy and I held a zone conference in Naha for 44 missionaries on the island of Okinawa. President Mills of the Japan Fukuoka Mission was prevented from attending by an approaching ferocious typhoon. The young zone leaders conducted that meeting with as much inspiration and dignity as their mission president might have done. We left the next morning in gale-force winds, content to leave the missionaries in their care.
Recently in Osaka, Japan, Elders Russell Ballard and Henry Eyring of the Twelve and I, together with President David Sorensen and others of the Seventy, met with 21 mission presidents and 26 Area Authority Seventies. There were among the Area Authority Seventies Elder Subandriyo from Jakarta, Indonesia: Elder Chu-Jen Chia from Beijing, China: Elder Remus G. Villarete of the Philippines: Elder Won Yong Ko from Korea: and 22 others—only two Americans among them. It was a uniting of nations, tongues, and people. None of them are paid. They all serve freely, grateful to be called to the work.
We reorganized stakes in Okazaki, Sapporo, and Osaka, Japan. All three of the new stake presidents and an incredible number of the leaders had joined the Church as teenagers. Most of them had lost their fathers in the war.

October 2003
The whole Church may stand alone in defense of these standards. But we are not the first. Moroni, the last of his people, said: "I even remain alone. . . . I fulfil the commandment of my father." Do not be afraid.
When I was young and very new in my calling, I was sent east to meet with powerful, prominent officials who were blocking our work. As I left for the airport, I stopped to see President Harold B. Lee and asked, "Do you have any parting counsel?"
"Yes," he said, "just remember this isn't 1830, and there aren't just six of us."
That erased fear. I pled our cause. The problem was resolved.

April 2003
Years ago on Christmas Eve, a cousin lost a little five-year-old boy to quick-pneumonia. The family gathered around the casket for the family prayer. A small blanket, made by his mother, lay folded across the little boy's feet.
Just as they were to close the casket, my mother stepped forward, put her arm around the grieving mother, and helped her unfold the blanket and tuck it around the little boy. The last his parents saw of their little son, he was asleep, covered with that favorite blanket. It was a very tender moment. That is what grandmothers do!
We returned to Brigham City for the funeral of my wife's father, William W. Smith. A young man I knew as a seminary student stood at the casket, deeply moved. I did not know that he knew my father-in-law.
He said: "One summer I worked for him on the farm. Brother Smith talked to me about going on a mission. My family could not possibly support a missionary. Brother Smith told me to pray about it and said, 'If you decide to go on a mission, I will pay for your mission,' and he did." Neither my wife nor her mother knew that. It was one of those things that grandfathers do. We have 10 children. One unsettled Sunday morning when our family was young, my wife was in sacrament meeting. As usual, I was away on Sunday. Our children took up much of a row.
Sister Walker, a lovely, gray-haired grandmother who raised 12 children, quietly moved from several rows back and slid into the row among our restless children. After the meeting, my wife thanked her for the help.
Sister Walker said, "You have your hands full, don't you?" My wife nodded. Sister Walker then patted her on the hand and said, "Your hands full now; your heart full later!" How prophetic was her quiet comment. That is what grandmothers do!
We presided over the New England Mission. One of our missionaries married and had five children. He went away to get a larger car for his family and never returned. His body was later found under an overpass; his car had been stolen.
I called his stake president to offer help to the family. He had already offered.
The grandfather said: "We know what our duty is. We won't need any help from the Church. We know what our duty is." That is what grandfathers do!

The average age of the Presidency and the Twelve at the present time is 77 years old. We are not very nimble. We may be past our prime. Nevertheless, the Lord ordered it to be this way.
A conference or two ago, Joseph Wirthlin said he was going to challenge the members of the Twelve to a race. I thought once, "Well, I'll accept the challenge." Then I thought it would be safer to race against 96-year-old Brother David Haight. I thought that over and decided that David might trip me with his cane, and I would lose the race. So I gave it up!

An adopted grandma can be found in Relief Society. And a grandpa will be found in the quorums of the priesthood. But all of the grandpas and grandmas are not in the Church.
One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what should he do.
I did not know, but I asked, "Is there an older couple that lives close to you?"
"Yes," he said, "across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple."
"Why don't you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate."
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

October 2002
I recall a conference where the patriarch was very old. While his ordination would remain in force, it was time that he be excused from giving blessings.
The stake president recommended a man with much leadership experience. However, I did not get the feeling that he should be the patriarch.
I knew that the First Presidency had said to stake presidents: "Because a man has filled with credit a presiding office and has attained a good age is no reason why he should or should not make a good patriarch; . . . [He should be one who has] developed within [him] the spirit of the patriarchs; in fact, this should be [his] leading characteristic, . . . [a man] of wisdom, possessed of the gift and spirit of blessing as well."
As the evening meeting was about to begin, an older man came partway down the aisle and, unable to find a seat, went to the back of the chapel. He was not quite as well dressed as most of the others and obviously had spent much time out-of-doors.
I whispered to the stake president, "Who is that man?"
Sensing what was on my mind, he said, "Oh, I don't think he could be our patriarch. He lives at the far edge of an outlying ward and has never held any leadership in a bishopric or high council."
He was invited to give the opening prayer, and he had said but a few words when that confirmation came, as it does by revelation, "This is the patriarch."
As I recall, he had six sons and one daughter. The youngest was then serving a mission, as had his older brothers, who were married and scattered about the country, all serving faithfully in the Church.
"What about your daughter?" I asked.
"Oh," he said, "you have met her. She is the wife of a counselor in the stake presidency."
I thought, "A patriarch, this man is a patriarch indeed!"
Before the general session, I met the aging patriarch in the foyer and said, "We are going to give you some help today."
He said, "Oh, thank you! I would appreciate that very, very much."
I said, "Let me give you the name of the new patriarch; then you and I and the stake president will be the only ones who know."
When I named the man, he was startled and said, "Isn't that interesting! I saw him among the people, coming into the building, and said to myself, 'Wouldn't he make a wonderful patriarch?' " It was an inspiring confirmation from the old patriarch.
There is nothing like this office in all of the Church or in all of the world.

April 2002
Many years ago in Cuzco, high in the Andes Mountains of Peru, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle and I held a sacrament meeting in a long, narrow room with a door that opened onto the street. It was night and it was very cold.
While Elder Tuttle spoke, a little boy, perhaps six years old, appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a ragged shirt that went about to his knees.
On our left was a small table with a plate of bread for the sacrament. This ragged street orphan saw the bread and inched slowly along the wall toward it. He was almost to the table when a woman on the aisle saw him. With a stern toss of her head, she banished him out into the night. I groaned within myself.
Later the boy returned. He crept along the wall, glancing from the bread to me. He was near the point where the woman would see him again. I held out my arms, and he came running to me. I held him on my lap.
Then, as something symbolic, I set him in Elder Tuttle's chair. After the closing prayer, much to my sorrow, he darted out into the night.
When I returned home, I told President Spencer W. Kimball about him. He was deeply moved and spoke of it in a conference talk. He told others of it and said to me more than once, "That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know."
I have never forgotten that little street orphan. Many times in South America I have looked for him in the faces of the people. When he comes back into my mind, others come with him.
After World War II on a cold night in a train station in southern Japan, I heard a tap on the train window. There stood a boy wearing the same ragged shirt, a rag tied about a swollen jaw, his head covered with scabies. He held a rusty tin can and a spoon, the symbol of an orphan beggar. As I struggled to open the door to give him money, the train pulled out. I will never forget that hungry little boy standing in the cold, holding up his empty tin can.

. Recently, I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.
Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny's brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.
Those parents have learned that "after much tribulation, . . . cometh the blessing" (D&C 103:12).

I think often of another boy. We met him at a seminary graduation in a remote city in Argentina. He was well clothed and well nourished.
The students came down the aisle up to the stand. There were three rather high steps. He could not make the first step because his legs were too short. He was a dwarf.
It was then we noticed marching behind him two stalwart young men who stepped forward, one on either side, and lifted him gracefully to the podium. When the service was over, they lifted him down again and then marched out with him. They were his friends and watched over him. This boy could not reach the first step without being lifted up by his friends.
Those who come into the Church come as children spiritually. They need someone—some friend—to lift them up.

October 2001
"And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things."
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin. He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, "Will there be a further life after death?" and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents, and his mother's sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes' notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, "Will I see my family again?"
The preacher answered, "My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!"
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—"Is there further life after death?"—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them "the bread of life."
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.

Soon after I was released from the air force, I went to the welfare mill at Kaysville, Utah, to help fill bags of wheat for shipment to the starving people in Europe. I like to think one of the bags of grain that I filled myself went to Manfred Schütze and his mother. If not, it went to others in equal need.
Elder Dieter Uchtdorf, who sits with us on the stand today as one of the Seventy, remembers to this very day the smell of the grain and the feel of it in his little-boy hands. Perhaps one of the bags I filled reached his family.

When I was about 10, I made my first attempt to read the Book of Mormon. The first part was easy-flowing New Testament language. Then I came to the writings of the Old Testament prophet Isaiah. I could not understand them; I found them difficult to read. I laid the book aside.
I made other attempts to read the Book of Mormon. I did not read it all until I was on a troop ship with other bomber crew members, headed for the war in the Pacific. I determined that I would read the Book of Mormon and find out for myself whether it is true or not. Carefully I read and reread the book. I tested the promise that it contained. That was a life-changing event. After that, I never set the book aside.

Many young people have done better than I did.
A 15-year-old son of a mission president attended high school with very few members of the Church.
One day the class was given a true-or-false test. Matthew was confident that he knew the answers to all except for question 15. It read, "Joseph Smith, the alleged Mormon prophet, wrote the Book of Mormon. True or false?"
He could not answer it either way, so being a clever teenager, he rewrote the question. He crossed out the word alleged and replaced the word wrote with translated. It then read, "Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, translated the Book of Mormon." He marked it true and handed it in.
The next day the teacher sternly asked why he had changed the question. He smiled and said, "Because Joseph Smith did not write the Book of Mormon, he translated it, and he was not an alleged prophet, he was a prophet."
He was then invited to tell the class how he knew that.

In England, my wife and I became acquainted with Dorothy James, the widow of a clergyman who lived at the Close of Winchester Cathedral. She brought out a family Bible which was lost for many years.
Years before, the possessions of a family member had been sold. The new owner found the Bible in a small desk that had remained unopened for over 20 years. There were also some letters written by a child named Beaumont James. He was able to find the James family and return the long-lost family Bible.
On the title page my wife read the following handwritten note: "This Bible has been in our family since the time of Thomas James in 1683 who was a lineal descendant of Thomas James first librarian of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, who was buried in New College Chapel August 1629. [Signed] C. T. C. James, 1880."
The margins and the open pages were completely filled with notations written in English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. One entry particularly touched her. From the bottom of the title page, she read, "The fairest Impression of the Bible is to have it well printed on the Readers heart."
And then this quote from Corinthians: "Ye are our epistle written in our hearts, known and read of all men: Forasmuch as ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ ministered by us, written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in the tables of stone, but in fleshly table of the heart. 2 Cor. 3:2–3."

My Book of Mormon also has many notes in the margins and is heavily underlined. I was in Florida once with President Hinckley. He turned from the pulpit and asked for a copy of the scriptures. I handed him my copy. He thumbed through it for a few seconds, turned and handed it back, saying, "I can't read this. You have got everything crossed out!"

April 2001
"Touch of The Master's Hand"
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile: "What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three — " But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone!" said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game — and he travels on.
He's "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
Myra Brooks Welch

October 1999
I want to pass to you something I learned from my brother, which has been like a shield and a protection to me. I have spoken of it before, but not in the detail that I will today.
I graduated from flight training and received my silver wings two days before my 20th birthday. Later I was stationed at Langley Field, Virginia, as copilot on a selected B-24 bomber crew trained to use a new secret weapon - radar.
My brother, Colonel Leon C. Packer, was stationed at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. A much decorated B-24 pilot, he became a brigadier general in the Air Force.
While I was at Langley Field, the war in Europe ended, and so we were ordered to the Pacific. I spent a few days with Leon in Washington before shipping out for combat.
He told me of things he had learned under fire. He flew from North Africa to the Ploiesti oil fields in Romania; very few of those planes returned.
On April 16, 1943, he was captain of a B-24 bomber returning to England after a raid in Europe. His plane, the Yard Bird, was heavily damaged by flak and dropped out of formation.
Then they were alone and came under heavy attack from fighters.
His one-page account of that experience says: "Number three engine was smoking and the prop ran away. Number four fuel line was shot out. Right aileron cables and stabilizer cables were shot out. Rudders partially locked. Radio shot out.
Extremely large holes in the right wing. Flaps shot out. Entire rear part of the fuselage filled with holes. Hydraulic system shot out. Tail turret out." A history of the Eighth Air Force, published just two years ago, gives a detailed account of that flight written by one of the crew.
With one engine on fire, the other three lost power. They were going down. The alarm bell ordered that they bail out. The bombardier, the only one able to get out, parachuted into the English Channel.
The pilots left their seats and made their way toward the bomb bay to bail out. Suddenly Leon heard an engine cough and sputter. He quickly climbed back to his seat and coaxed enough power from the engines to reach the coast of England. Then the engines failed, and they crashed.
The landing gear was shorn off on the brow of a hill; the plane plowed through trees and crumbled. Dirt filled the fuselage.
Amazingly, though some were terribly wounded, all aboard survived. The bombardier was lost, but he probably saved the lives of the other nine. When smoke poured from the engines and a parachute appeared, the fighters stopped their attack.
That was not the only time Leon had crash-landed.
As we visited, he told me how he was able to hold himself together under fire. He said, "I have a favorite hymn" - and he named it - "and when things got rough I would sing it silently to myself, and there would come a faith and an assurance that kept me on course."
He sent me off to combat with that lesson.
In the spring of 1945 I was able to test that lesson Leon had taught me those months before.
The war in the Pacific ended before we reached the Philippines, and we were ordered to Japan.
One day we flew out of Atsugi airfield near Yokohama in a B-17 bomber bound for Guam to pick up a beacon light.
After nine hours in the air, we let down through the clouds to find ourselves hopelessly lost. Our radio was out. We were, as it turned out, in a typhoon. Flying just above the ocean, we began a search pattern. In that desperate situation, I remembered the words of my brother. I learned that you can pray and even sing without making a sound.
After some time we pulled up over a line of rocks jutting out of the water. Could they be part of the chain of the Mariana Islands? We followed them. Soon Tinian Island loomed ahead, and we landed with literally seconds of fuel in the tank. As we headed down the runway, the engines one by one stopped.
I learned that both prayer and music can be very silent and very personal. Now, while that experience was dramatic, the greater value of Leon's lesson came later in everyday life when I faced the same temptations you young people and children face now.

I can't refrain from telling you one other thing about that visit with my brother in Washington. He was to take a B-25 bomber to Texas to pick up something and return to Washington the next day. I went with him. That was the only time we flew together.
Many years later I was honored by Weber State University, where we both had graduated. He had been a student body officer during his college days. Because I would be in South America, he agreed to attend the banquet and accept the award in my behalf.
In his acceptance speech he told this story - part of which is true. He said that in Texas we were lined up side by side on the runway ready to take off. He radioed to me and said, "See you upstairs - if you think you can make it!"
Then he told them that after I became a General Authority of the Church, once in a while I would check on his behavior and add, "See you upstairs - if you think you can make it!"
Well, Leon made it. He is now where I hope one day to be.

Perhaps you won't be quite perfect, but you can come close enough.
I can give you this encouragement: A teacher, trying to explain what a theory is, asked this question: "If you take a letter half the distance to a mailbox and stop, then start over going half the remaining distance and stop, then repeat the process over and over, theoretically will you ever really get to the mailbox?" One bright student said, "No, but you'll get close enough to mail the letter."

Sunday, April 1999
Years ago a friend of mine went to a large university to study under the ranking authority in the field of counseling and guidance. This professor quickly took an interest in this personable, intelligent young Latter-day Saint. He attracted attention as he moved through the course work required for a doctor's degree.
He chose the Latter-day Saint bishop as the subject for his dissertation. All went well until he described the ordination of a bishop, the power of discernment, and the right of a bishop to spiritual guidance.
His doctoral committee felt that such references had no place in a scholarly paper, and they insisted that he take them out. He thought he might at least say that Latter-day Saints believe the bishop has spiritual insight. But the committee denied him even this, for they would be quite embarrassed to have this spiritual ingredient included in a scholarly dissertation.
He was told that with some little accommodation - specifically, leaving out all the references to revelation - his dissertation would be published and his reputation established.
He did the best he could. His dissertation did not contain enough about the Spirit to satisfy him and too much to be fully accepted by his worldly professors. But he received his degree.
I asked this friend what was the most important thing he had learned in his study of bishops. He answered, "I learned that the mantle is far, far greater than the intellect, that the priesthood is the guiding power."

The Relief Society
Sunday, April 5, 1998

As mission president, I attended a mission Relief Society conference. Our mission Relief Society president, a relatively recent convert, announced something of a course correction. Some local societies had strayed, and she invited them to conform more closely to the direction set by the general presidency of the Relief Society.

One sister in the congregation stood and defiantly told her that they were not willing to follow her counsel, saying they were an exception. A bit flustered, she turned to me for help. I didn't know what to do. I was not interested in facing a fierce woman. So I motioned for her to proceed. Then came the revelation! This lovely Relief Society president, small and somewhat handicapped physically, said with gentle firmness: "Dear sister, we'd like not to take care of the exception first. We will take care of the rule first, and then we will see to the exceptions." The course correction was accepted.

Her advice is good for Relief Society and priesthood and for families. When you state a rule and include the exception in the same sentence, the exception is accepted first.

Called to Serve
Saturday, October 4, 1997

Over the years I have watched one dear sister give service far beyond any calling to teach or lead in the Church. She sees a need and serves; not "Call me if you need help," but "Here I am; what can I do?" She does so many small things, like holding someone's child in a meeting or taking a child to school who has missed the bus. She always looks for new faces at church and steps forward to make them welcome.
Her husband knows that when they attend a ward social, he can generally count on her saying, "Why don't you go along home. I see they are a little short on help to clear up and do the dishes."
He came home one evening to find her putting the furniture back in place. That morning she had the feeling that she should see how an elderly sister with a heart condition was managing a wedding breakfast for a grandchild who had come from out of state to be married in the temple.
She found the woman sitting alone at the church, in despair, surrounded by the things she had brought in preparation. Somehow there had been a double booking of the hall. In a few hours the guests would arrive. Whatever could she do?
This attentive sister took the older sister home with her and put her down to rest. Then she went to work moving the furniture around. When the guests arrived, a beautiful wedding breakfast was ready to be served.
She learned that spirit of service from her mother. The spirit of service is best taught at home. We must teach our children by example and tell them that an unselfish spirit is essential to happiness.
Leaders must learn how to issue calls. When I was a young man, I heard Elder Spencer W. Kimball speak in a stake conference. He said that as a new stake president in Arizona, he left his office in the bank to call a man to be stake leader of the young men.
He said, "Jack, how would you like to be leader of the young men in the stake?"
Jack responded, "Aw, Spencer, you don't mean me. I couldn't do anything like that."
He tried to persuade him, but Jack refused the call.
Brother Kimball went back to his office to brood over his failure. He knew the stake presidency had been inspired to make the call. Finally it came to him: he had made a terrible mistake! Of course, Jack would not respond.
Perhaps he recalled what the prophet Jacob had said when he "taught them in the temple, having first obtained mine errand from the Lord."
President Kimball now did as Jacob had done in ancient times. He "obtained [his] errand from the Lord."
He returned to ask Jack to forgive him for not doing it right and started over: "Last Sunday the stake presidency prayerfully considered who should lead the young men in the stake. There were several names; yours was among them. We all felt that you were the man. We knelt in prayer. The Lord confirmed to the three of us, by revelation, that you were to be called to that position."
Then he said, "As a servant of the Lord, I am here to deliver that call."
Then Jack said, "Well, Spencer, if you are going to put it that way . . ."
President Kimball replied, "I am putting it that way!"
Of course, Jack would not respond to a casual invitation from Spencer, but he could not refuse a call from the Lord through Stake President Kimball. He served faithfully and with inspiration.

One of the great influences in my life was to work closely for many years with Belle S. Spafford, general president of the Relief Society, surely one of the greatest women of this dispensation.
One day she told me that as a young woman she explained to her bishop that she was willing to serve but preferred a call to teach. The following week she was called as a counselor to the ward Relief Society president. "I did not relish the call," she said. "The bishop had misunderstood." She told him bluntly Relief Society was for old women. Except for the counsel of her husband, she would have refused the call.
Several times she asked to be released. Each time the bishop said he would pray about it.
One night she was seriously injured in an automobile accident. After some time in the hospital, she was recovering at home. A terrible laceration on her face became infected. The worried doctor told her, "We can't touch this surgically; it's too close to the main nerve in your face."
That Sunday night, as the doctor left the Spafford home, the bishop, returning from a late meeting, saw the lights on and stopped in.
Sister Spafford later told me, "In that pathetic condition I tearfully said, 'Bishop, now will you release me?'"
Again he said, "I will pray about it."
When the answer came, it was, "Sister Spafford, I still can't get the feeling that you should be released from Relief Society."
Belle S. Spafford served for 46 years in the Relief Society, nearly 30 years as general president. She was an influence for good in the Church and was respected by women leaders worldwide.
At a meeting of the World Council of Women in Suriname, citing age and failing health, she submitted a letter of resignation as an officer. She showed me their letter of refusal - they needed her wisdom, her strength of character.
She often spoke of being tested in her calling. Perhaps the greatest test came when, as a young woman, she learned to respect the power and authority inherent in the priesthood and that an ordinary man serving as bishop can receive direction from the Lord in calling members to serve.

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The Shield of Faith
Saturday, April 1, 1995

In 1976 following a conference in Copenhagen, Denmark, President Spencer W. Kimbal invited us to a small church to see the statues of Christ and the Twelve Apostles by Bertel Thorvaldsen. The "Christus" stands in an alcove beyond the altar. Standing in order along the sides of the chapel, are the statues of the Twelve, with Paul replacing Judas Iscariot.
President Kimball told the elderly caretaker that at the very time Thorvaldsen was creating those beautiful statues in Denmark, a restoration of the Gospel of Jesus Christ was taking place in America with Apostles ansprophets receiving authority from those who held it anciently
Gathering those present closer to him, he said to the caretaker, "We are living Apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ, " and, pointing to Elder Pinegar, he said, " Here is a Seventy like those spoken of in the New Testament."
We were standing near the statue of Peter, whom the sculptor depicted holding keys in his hand, symbolic of th keys of the Kingdom. President Kimball said, "We hold the real keys as Peter did, and we use them every day."
The came an experience I will never forget. President Kimball, this gentle prophet, turned to President John H. Benthin, of the Coppenhagen Stake, and in a commanding voice said, "I want you to tell every prelate in Denmark that they do NOT hold the keys! I HOLD THE KEYS!"
There came to me that witness known to Latter-day Saints but difficult to describe to one who has not experienced it - a light, a power coursing through one's very soul - and I knew that, in very fact, here stood the living prophet who held the keys.

The Father And The Family
April 1994

I learned from a little boy the identity and value of a human soul. Some years ago, two of our little boys were wrestling on the rug. They had reached that pitch where laughter turns to tears. I worked a foot gently between them and lifted the older boy (then just four) to a sitting position on the rug, saying, "Hey, there, you monkeys, you'd better settle down." He folded his little arms and looked at me with surprising seriousness. His little boy feelings had been hurt, and he protested, "I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person."
I was overwhelmed with love for him. I realized he was a child of God. How much I wanted him to be "a person"--one of eternal worth. From such ordinary experiences, I have learned to understand doctrine. "Children," truly, "are an heritage of the Lord."