Gospel Story Finder

This story took place in the USA.
“I can’t come over today,” Blair said. Her face felt hot from embarrassment.
Her friends stared at her. “But you said you would!” Sammy said.
“I know.” Blair stared down at her feet. “I’m not feeling very good. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Jessica said.
Blair didn’t know what to say. She wished she could go to Sammy’s house. But her stomach really hurt today. She needed to go home and rest.
Blair had Crohn’s disease. It made her stomach ache, and it really hurt. Most days her stomach hurt at least a little. But some days were worse than others. Today was one of those days. She wished she could pick which days she hurt more. It seemed like her stomach hurt the most whenever she wanted to do something fun.
“Let’s just go,” Sammy said to Jessica.
When Blair got home, she took her medicine. Then she tried to sleep. But she hurt too much.
Mom and Dad came to check on her. Dad sat on her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“OK. The medicine helped a little,” Blair said.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t go to Sammy’s house,” Mom said.
Blair felt tears in her eyes. “It’s not fair! My friends don’t understand what it’s like.” Blair threw a pillow at the wall. “I just want to get better.”
Dad gave Blair a hug. “I know. Would you like a priesthood blessing?”
Blair nodded. Blessings usually helped her feel more peace.
Dad put his hands on Blair’s head and blessed her to rest and feel comfort. It was a nice blessing. It helped her remember that Heavenly Father loved her. But she still felt sad about her friends.
After the blessing, Mom and Dad gave Blair a kiss goodnight. They left so she could sleep.
Blair lay back down and closed her eyes. The blessing had helped, but she was still hurting.
She knelt by her bed to pray. At first it was like most of her prayers. She told Heavenly Father what she was grateful for and asked to feel better. But this time she kept going.
“Heavenly Father, I feel really sad. I miss being with my friends,” she said. “I feel lonely. No one understands how much I hurt each day. I miss what it was like before I was sick.”
The longer Blair prayed, the more she felt that Heavenly Father was listening to her prayer. She couldn’t hear or see Him, but she felt His love. She knew He cared about what she had to say. Blair didn’t want the feeling to end.
Blair prayed until she had told Heavenly Father everything she felt. Then a thought came to her mind. Blair’s friends might never know what it felt like to have Crohn’s disease, but Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ did. They knew how much she hurt and how lonely she felt. They would always be there for her.
Blair felt like she was getting the biggest hug. After she finished her prayer, she went to find her parents to tell them what happened.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Mom asked.
Blair smiled. “No. I’ve been praying.”
Mom looked surprised. “We said good night a while ago. Were you praying that whole time?”
Had it really been so long? Blair nodded. “It was like getting a big hug. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know how I feel. Because of Them, I don’t have to feel alone!”
Illustrations by Tammie Lyon

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.
Over the years, I have wondered what President Kimball meant when he reminded me of that street orphan in Cuzco and repeated, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.” One day he added, “You held a nation on your lap.”
Now in my 78th year, I understand what President Kimball was seeing; I know what he meant. That boy in Cuzco and the one in Japan and the other children about the world profoundly influence what I think and how I feel and what I pray for most earnestly. I constantly think of little children and their parents who struggle to raise them in ever more perilous times.

I converted to the Church as a young boy of 13. One summer day in 1971, my father took me to town for our haircut. While the barber was cutting my hair, suddenly two American ladies arrived at the barbershop. They were introduced by the barber to my father as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told Father that they have a good doctrine that he can try investigating. At first, Father was hesitant to accept the invitation but he was finally persuaded to accept an appointment at home.
So we were taught the true gospel of Jesus Christ and were given a copy of the Book of Mormon. My parents read and pondered the sacred book. As they studied its contents, and they felt its power. They decided to be baptized with us their children.
Before becoming members of the true church, our mortal path seemed dark and hopeless, we had no knowledge of God’s plan, and we didn’t know about eternal life. Our motto was “eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die,” but when we found the true church, our path became brighter with all the ordinances and the covenants we made with God.
Our baptism into the Church allowed us to enter the covenant path which will bring us back to God’s presence. If we continue pressing forward, keeping the commandments, and enduring to the end, we will have eternal life. We can achieve this by making, keeping, and honoring our covenants at baptism and at the temple.

I was on a freight ship going to the Society Islands a few years ago, and I was up in the chart room with the captain who was checking his charts, and I said, “Where are we about now?” He showed me on the map and then said, “Would you like to see where we are going?” I said, “Sure.” He walked over to some kind of a contraption, turned a couple of dials and said, “That’s where we’re going.” I looked into a piece of glass about so square and I saw a beautiful island. I had never seen it before in my life. It was the island of Tahiti, and I was looking at it from that ship hundreds of miles away.

Now he didn’t have a kodak, with a large telescopic lens taking a picture of Tahiti and showing me the proof and the print. He had an instrument that could reach out and bring into his vision islands hundreds of miles away. He turned another dial, and I saw several ships. He said, “Those ships are on their way to Australia.”

Now, I don’t doubt anymore about the angel Moroni coming into the Prophet’s home. Man hasn’t yet harnessed all of these elements. He’s working at it and meeting with great success. But if I could bring the island of Tahiti by turning a dial in the chart room of that freight ship, God can send a resurrected being through walls and rooms into the home of a young inquiring mind that is seeking truth.

As I slowly added to my mother’s family tree, I received a message from someone I didn’t know on FamilySearch. A maternal family name I had sent to the temple was reserved by this person, and they asked me for help to find more information about their family.
Temple names can only be reserved by descendants of that name, meaning I was related to this person messaging me. I was astounded! My family had always believed that we were the only members of the Church on my mother’s side and that no one from her side lived in the USA. But we were wrong.
This person turned out to be a distant cousin—their family immigrated to the United States almost 40 years before my mother did and are active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By what can only be described as a miracle, they contacted me right when they were visiting my state, and we had the opportunity to meet each other.
We shed tears when we finally saw each other. As we shared our stories, we realized that we had so much more in common than we’d thought. There is something about finding long-lost family members that makes my heart grow with love—a love that has the power to heal loneliness and discouragement and remind me of my divine identity and eternal connections.
The blessings available to us when we do family history work are “breathtakingly amazing because of their scope, specificity, and consequence in mortality,”3 as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared. The Lord blessed my family with relatives who could help us feel a bit closer to home and ease some of the loneliness we’ve been feeling.

Several years ago, a young girl living in Vanuatu named Marsela Tokalolo, took her father’s counsel to heart: “Stay close to the gospel of Jesus Christ and value education.”
Education was so important to her father that he sent her, at age 12 ,to school in Fiji, sacrificing money and being away from his daughter. After graduating from high school and then completing grade 13 in Fiji, Marsela returned home to Vanuatu.
In Fiji, Marsela had seen a spiritual light in her teachers, many of whom had graduated from Brigham Young University–Hawaii.
After she served as a missionary for the Church in the Philippines, her desire to attend BYU–Hawaii motivated her to work and sacrifice for her own education as her father had counseled her.
Mariella Kaun, a fellow member of the Church in Vanuatu, mentored Marsela as she raised funds for her education. Marsela baked and sold banana pies, custard pies and laplap, the national dish of Vanuatu.
Marsela said, “Members and friends were willing to support me knowing that it would help me go to school.”
Marsela was achieving her goals. She graduated from BYU–Hawaii, met her husband, and was married in the Laie Hawaii Temple.
“The House of the Lord is [a] holy house,” she said. “God walks with us in our life journey.”
A temple is being constructed in Port Vila, Vanuatu.
Regarding the new temple, Marsela said, “It is an answered prayer for me. This is a witness that God is indeed mindful of His children. The temple will definitely be a light in our nation.”

There was knocking at our door. I opened it to find two young men standing there. Tactlessly, I closed the door before they could say anything.

“Open the door again and say you are sorry,” my father’s voice commanded from the back of the house. “We did not teach you to treat people this way!”

Feeling a little ridiculous, I opened the door. “I’m sorry,” I mustered.

“I want to know about you, about your beliefs. Please come in,” my father invited. The young men introduced themselves as missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Reluctantly, I listened to their message—at age 13, I had no choice but to participate.

For four months those missionaries visited my home, teaching the doctrines of the restored Church of Jesus Christ. “We respect and admire your courage, but we will never change our religion,” my father finally told them, and we never saw those elders again.

The revelation in Doctrine and Covenants 71 tells Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon to go and preach in an effort to ease unfriendly feelings that had arisen against the Church due to criticisms from members who had lost their faith. Over 100 years later, Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles had a similar experience preaching in defense of the Church.
During a visit to Otavalo, Ecuador, in 1965, Elder Kimball told the missionaries to present the Book of Mormon to the native Otavalans. However, the missionaries met resistance when Otavalans began spreading lies about them in the nearby villages, and the missionaries struggled to overcome the falsehoods.
Two years later, Elder Kimball joined a few members and missionaries in a meeting near a local bus stop. As local residents got off buses, missionaries invited them to hear from a living Apostle of Jesus Christ. Soon, about 20 people gathered. As the missionaries started their meeting, the crowd grew to more than 100.
Then Elder Kimball spoke. He told of the coming of Jesus Christ in the Americas. He pointed to the sky and spoke of the still, small voice from the heavens that announced the appearance of the Son of God, as found in the Book of Mormon. Elder Kimball recalled, “Every eye followed my motion to the sky as though the Savior were actually there coming through the thin clouds.”1
After this, missionaries kept trying to teach Otavalans. Sister missionaries taught a man named Rafael Tabango, who was baptized on July 14, 1968—the first native Otavalo Latter-day Saint. His wife, Teresa, also joined the Church. Less than 15 years later, a stake was organized in Otavalo, with Brother Tabango called as its first patriarch.

I live with a chronic, debilitating disease. Because of my disease, even opening my eyes can feel excruciating at times. But every morning I get to wake up to two big blue eyes, a head full of red hair, and a big pacifier smile—my beautiful three-year-old daughter. Opening my eyes to this sight every morning reminds me that even though my body is broken, I am blessed in so many ways.
My life may not be the picture I had painted in my mind, but I know that my circumstances in life are known to our loving Heavenly Father. I have found, in this trial of illness, that choice—when used righteously—is such a blessing. You may not deal with a debilitating illness like I do, but you might be facing other heart-wrenching and difficult trials in your own life. Regardless of the trials we all face, we still get to choose every day if we will turn to God or not.
In some ways, coping with the mental aspect of chronic illness can be harder than managing the physical aspect. But when I take a moment to pause and look at my life as a whole, I see the miracles the Lord daily performs for me and my family. And it’s often little things like somehow summoning up the strength to jump on the trampoline with my little girl. Those moments are the incredible gifts Heavenly Father gives me every day to show me how much He loves me and is aware of me.
Through these sweet miracles and tender mercies, I’ve learned to truly trust God with my life. When I turn it over to Him, He gives me the perspective I need in order to keep going. I have come to understand that my disease isn’t my life. My disease is part of my life. And though it is a big part of me and something that is always there, I am so much more than my illness. I am a mom, wife, sister, aunt, and daughter. In fact, I am a beloved daughter of God, and He knows me personally and loves me more deeply than I can comprehend. And that knowledge, in and of itself, is miraculous.
I know God didn’t give me this illness to punish me; He has allowed me to be sick as an opportunity to grow spiritually even as my physical body deteriorates.
Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are the only way to true and lasting happiness. Yes, I have a chronic illness, and I know I will endure more challenges throughout this life. But through these challenges, I have been able to see more of the blessings and goodness that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ offer us every day. I know They will be by my side every step of the way if I continue to choose to turn to Them each day.

Twenty-three boys in the Ontario First Ward, Nyssa Oregon Stake, earned the rank of Eagle in the same year.
It all started when their Scoutmaster, Glen Banner, challenged them to make it a “Year of the Eagle.” The troop set a goal to complete their Eagles before the year was up. Each had to set intermediate goals, and each encouraged and reminded his friends of their common goal. Several mothers made a banner proclaiming the “Year of the Eagle” and this banner was displayed at each court of honor and all Scout activities.
As the 23 boys were ready to participate in their Eagle projects, the Scoutmaster contacted the mayor to offer the time and talents of his Scouts. In total, this single troop donated more than 2,000 hours of service to their community, doing such things as renovating playground equipment, planting shrubs, marking a segment of the Oregon Trail, and volunteering for other community service.
When their goal had been reached, a special program was held honoring the troop. The mayor made a proclamation, and special speakers were Elder Paul H. Dunn, of the First Quorum of the Seventy, and Danny White, quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys football team.

To the west of our home was our garden plot. Part of the garden was in potatoes. One day my father said to my sister and me, “There are more potatoes than we can use. If you would like to sell some, you may do so.” My sister Alice and I dug some up and hauled them down to a hotel and sold them. When we showed the money to our father, he asked what we were going to do with it. We said we would divide it before buying some things we wanted. Then he questioned, “What about your tithing?” He said, “The Lord has been good to us. We planted and cultivated and harvested, but the earth is the Lord’s. He sent the moisture and the sunshine. One-tenth we always give back to the Lord for his part.” My father made no requirement; he merely explained it so convincingly that we felt it an honor and privilege to pay tithing.

Years ago I presided over a mission headquartered in the Midwest. One day, with a handful of our missionaries, I spoke with an esteemed representative of another Christian faith. This gentle soul spoke of his own religion’s history and doctrine, eventually repeating the familiar words: “By grace ye are saved. Every man and woman must exercise faith in Christ in order to become a saved being.”
Among those present was a new missionary. He was altogether unfamiliar with other religions. He had to ask the question, “But, sir, what happens to the little baby who dies before he is old enough to understand and exercise faith in Christ?” The learned man bowed his head, looked at the floor, and said, “There ought to be an exception. There ought to be a loophole. There ought to be a way, but there isn’t.”
The missionary looked at me and, with tears in his eyes, said, “Goodness, President, we do have the truth, don’t we!”

September had come, and autumn was just around the corner. The leaves of the poplar and cottonwood trees had changed from green to golden yellow. The grass that grew beside the road had turned to rusty brown. And Malan had turned eight.
The day of Malan’s baptism finally arrived. He had learned about baptism in Primary and during family home evenings, and he had thought about the event for a long time. Using his own new copies of the scriptures, he and his dad had read about the baptism of Jesus (Matt. 3:13–17). Now he could be a member of record of the Church, like his mom and dad and the bishop and the boys who passed the sacrament. If he always tried to do the right thing, his baptism would enable him to “enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5), and that’s where he and Dad decided they wanted the whole family to be. Malan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the car’s tires on the pavement as the car carried them to the Parkland Ward meetinghouse.
In a few minutes he and his sister, Ginger, his mom, Aunt Marcia and Uncle Scott, his cousins Jenny and Coral, and his Grandma and Grandpa would be there. His dad was already there, running water into the font and making sure that the white clothes were ready.
It seemed to Malan that time was dragging. The streets of the city were crammed with cars, and every red light seemed to refuse to turn green. A lane ahead was blocked because a truck had tipped over and spilled its load of wood.
Malan peered anxiously out the car window. A man was frantically directing the traffic and casting unhappy glances at his overturned truck. Behind him, driving along the ditch, was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing.
“Don’t worry,” Malan’s mom said, turning around and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’ll be there in time.”
Malan sighed with relief when they finally pulled up in front of the large red brick building. He was so eager to get inside that he almost forgot how important it was to walk quietly and be reverent in the Lord’s house.
He saw his dad, dressed all in white, coming to meet him. But something was wrong! Dad knelt down; his kind blue eyes were concerned. “You have a decision to make, Son,” his dad said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ve run the water for a long time, and it appears that the hot water heater is broken. The water in the font is very cold. Do you want to be baptized in cold water or wait until next week?”
Malan stood for a long moment and wondered what to do. Behind him he could hear his Grandpa talking, and the excited voices of his small cousins. Through the chapel window he could see the yellow-clad branch of a tall poplar tree as it scratched gently against the pane.
“Were you baptized in a river, Dad?” he asked.
His dad smiled. “Yes, I was baptized in the Moose Jaw River.”
“Was it cold?”
“Only for a few moments.”
Malan lifted his chin and hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice his trembling body. “I want to be baptized today. I don’t mind if the water is cold.”
Malan was uneasy as he changed into his white clothing. And although he tried to sit quietly through his Grandpa’s prayer and his mother’s talk about Jesus, Malan’s legs insisted upon swinging and his stomach had a big knot in it.
Finally it was time! As Malan stepped into the icy water, his knees shook and he wanted to run back through the halls and out to the shelter of the car. Then his dad’s strong hands reached for his. “Are you ready?”
Malan nodded. He listened to the prayer, then pinched his nose as the icy water swept over his head. When he stood up, he gasped for air and splashed to the stairs of the font. As he moved toward the dressing room, his body shook and his teeth chattered, but he hardly noticed. Inside he was filled with a golden warmth, like the autumn leaves outside.

Before you ask, let me tell you the answer is no. I am not a Mormon. Okay, I am basically a mild-mannered, clean-cut guy who happens to be named Jared. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of Mormon boys named Jared. But as far as I know, the Mormon church doesn’t have a monopoly on clean-living guys named Jared. Just because I’m not a Mormon doesn’t mean I don’t like them.
Take Oscar Whitman, for example. Oscar is a Mormon. He’s a witty, athletic, clean-cut kid like me, and that’s probably why he became my best friend, despite the fact he’s a Mormon.
I first met Osc in sophomore English—he sat behind me—and we got to know each other so well in football (he ran, I blocked) and in basketball (he shot, I rebounded) that by the end of our sophomore year, we were best friends.
The first year I knew him, he never said two words about church stuff. And I wouldn’t have known he was a Mormon if he hadn’t refused to join a bunch of us for some Sunday hoops.
“Sunday basketball wouldn’t go over too well with my dad,” Osc told me. “He’s the bishop of my ward.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re a Mormon?”
“Yeah, is that bad?”
“No, it’s just that, well, I never figured you were one of them, that’s all.”
Osc just smiled.
One afternoon about two weeks ago, Osc and I were eating lunch together in the cafeteria. Just before we finished, he said, “Hey, Jared, I talked to Carol Lunt yesterday at church.”
“Carol Lunt?” I nearly choked. “You mean she’s Mormon too?” Carol Lunt, the most beautiful girl in the junior class, occupied the seat in front of me in math. For three months I had been trying to get up enough courage to ask her out.
“Yeah, she’s one of us. Anyway, I thought you might be interested because we were talking about you.”
“Great. I suppose you told her what a terrible heathen I am, right?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, instead of telling her the truth about you, I told her a bunch of baloney about what a clean-cut, hard-working, nice dude you are. And you know what was really weird? I think she believed everything I said.”
My stomach, or maybe it was my heart, turned a back flip.
“Anyway,” Osc continued, “I told her she and Marie Allen—you know Marie, don’t you?—ought to go out with some of us sometime.”
“And what’d she do, throw up right then and there?”
“No, she said it sounded like fun. You want me to go ahead and set it up? I mean, can you handle going out with a bunch of Mormons?”
“Well, I’m already used to you, and I suppose I can put up with a couple more for a few hours—especially if one of them is Carol Lunt.”
Osc and Carol planned the big event. They weren’t letting me in on anything. All Osc would say was that it was going to be “steak night” so I should bring extra money and “not dress like a slob.”
Saturday night, Osc picked each of us up and drove us to the Porter House, the largest, most popular steak restaurant in town. As we pulled into its parking lot, the aroma of charbroiled beef wafted into my open window and made my mouth water. It was going to be a great night.
Osc and I both ordered the Porter House special. Carol wanted filet mignon, and Marie ordered salisbury steak. After the waitress had taken our orders, Marie said, “Did you hear what Brother Craig did at Mutual last week?” Osc and Carol shook their heads. “He found out that last month it was the teachers from the Fourth Ward who started playing basketball in the cultural hall before our Relief Society was finished.”
Osc and Carol listened with interest, but I had no idea what Marie was talking about. She was speaking English, but most of it didn’t make a bit of sense to me.
“Well,” she continued, “one of their basketballs bounced right onto the table that held all the cakes the women had made in their cake-decorating lesson and smashed almost all of them.”
“Oh, man,” said Osc, “I bet Sister Hansen went nuts.”
Marie nodded. “She tried to make the boys stop, but they just grabbed the ball and ran out of the cultural hall, tracking frosting all over the building.”
“So that’s where all that mess came from,” said Carol.
“Right,” nodded Marie.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Wait a minute; wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Will somebody please explain what in the world you’re talking about?”
“Church stuff, Jared,” said Osc.
“I figured that much, but I never knew Mormons had nuns and monks.”
“Huh?” we said in unison.
“Nuns and monks. You know, sisters and brothers.”
Marie giggled and Carol tried to hide her grin behind her napkin.
“Don’t be such a Gentile,” said Osc. “We’re talking about people in our ward. Mormons call each other brother and sister. Like Carol, she’s Sister Lunt. Marie is Sister Allen, and to them I’m Brother Whitman. Understand?”
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “But I don’t understand what a bunch of teachers were doing in a cultural hall playing basketball. Imagine what would happen if some faculty members got caught dribbling a basketball in the school auditorium?”
Osc sighed. “A cultural hall is a Mormon gym.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. And teachers aren’t teachers. They’re 14- and 15-year-old guys who have the Aaronic Priesthood.”
“Give me a break. High school guys have the priesthood in your church?”
“Sure,” said Osc. “I’m a priest.”
“Oh, really, Father Whitman? Where’s your collar?”
“Come on, Jared. Not a Catholic priest. It’s different with Mormons.” He looked at Carol who was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Sister Lunt, would you mind translating our Mormon talk for Jared tonight? I’m not getting through to him.”
“Sure, Brother Whitman, I’ll be glad to.”
Our dinner arrived and interrupted the conversation. It took us nearly an hour to work our way through the steaks, baked potatoes, salads, and vegetables. But dinner was fantastic, and not because I was sitting in front of the largest and most delicious steak I had ever seen. Osc, Carol, and Marie were great company, too, even if they were Mormons.
While the waitress was clearing away the remains of our feast, Marie and Carol excused themselves so they could go make themselves even more beautiful for part two of the double date.
“Great meal, Osc. This is a blast,” I said, after they’d left.
“Hey, what else could you expect from your best friend?”
“So what’s next,” I inquired.
Osc slid a toothpick into his mouth. “I told you this was a steak night, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and we’ve had our steaks. Now what?”
“Another steak,” was his reply.
“No way, man. I can’t eat another bite. I thought we’d be going to a movie or something.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Carol and I planned this. It’s steak night all the way.”
When the girls came back, we paid our bill, left the restaurant, and drove until we came to a large building. “This is the place, guys,” said Osc, as he pulled into the crowded parking lot.
I couldn’t believe it. These guys had led me into a Mormon trap! “Hold it,” I said. “I’m not going to church with you. Osc, you said this was going to be a steak night.”
“Yeah, a steak dinner and a stake dance. This building is a stake—s-t-a-k-e—center, Jared, and there’s a dance here tonight.”
“Oh, a dance.” I blushed for doubting my friends. “Sorry I panicked, but I figured you guys were dragging me to some sort of religious revival. Let me guess. The dance is in the cultural hall.”
Osc chuckled and Carol said, “Very good, Jared. You’re finally getting the hang of Mormon-talk.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first Mormon dance. Waltzes, maybe. Or if it was really wild, a square dance. But the music coming through the door of the cultural hall sounded familiar enough, and the few kids I saw in the lobby looked like regular kids.
On the inside, though, it didn’t look like any dance I’d ever seen before. The first thing I noticed were the lights—they were still on. They weren’t glaring bright, but they were on. And the music was different too. At most school dances, the music’s loud enough to pry the floorboards loose; this music was loud, but not enough to melt anybody’s eardrums.
As it turned out, we danced every dance that night, and I had the time of my life. After it was over, Osc drove us all home. When he got to my house, the first stop, he parked the car, turned around from the front seat, handed Carol a shopping bag, and said, “Go ahead, Carol.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out two packages, each wrapped in the Sunday comics. “These are mementos of tonight,” she said, handing one to Marie and one to me.
“The finishing touch on steak night,” Osc added. “And yours has something special inside, Jared. You just can’t open it until you get home.”
I said good night and went inside. I went straight to my bedroom and opened the package. Inside was an aluminum tent stake with “Steak-Stake Night” written on one side in light red nail polish and “Group Date #1” written on the other side. Also in the wrapping was a navy-blue paperback book, the Book of Mormon. I propped the stake up among the trophies on top of my dresser and flopped down on my bed to look at the book my friends had given me.
Pasted inside the front cover was a photo of the three of them taken at one of those instant photo booths. Under the photo was a message Osc had written:
Dear Jared,
This book contains the precious truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and it’s a book that each one of us has studied and read. We know it’s true, and we know its principles are the keys to happiness, not only in this life, but in the life to come. As your friends, we hope you’ll read it, think about it, and pray about it. If some parts are difficult to understand, we’ll be glad to explain them to you or find someone who can. We know if you’ll read and pray about this book, you’ll learn for yourself that it’s true.
Your Mormon friends,Oscar, Carol, and Marie
I closed the book and lay on my bed thinking about the three of them. Oscar, Carol, and Marie were special people, some of the best I’d ever known. I wondered what made them that way. Whatever it was, I was glad to have friends like them, friends who cared enough about me to share something that was obviously very important to them.
It was getting late, so I put the Book of Mormon on my desk and started getting ready for bed. Tomorrow I’d start reading that book to see if I could find out what makes it—and my friends—so special.

It was almost midnight in South Africa when President Russell M. Nelson announced in the last conference session on April 4, 2021 that 20 new temples would be built.
Sister Shelly Herbert, who had been watching the session in bed whilst her husband slept, sat up a little straighter. President Henry B. Eyring’s earlier address, in which he invited the saints to ready themselves “for the increased opportunities for temple experiences that are coming for us,”1 had piqued her interest.
When the Prophet read the words ‘Cape Town, South Africa’, “the tears were just streaming down my face,” says Sister Herbert. “As I cried, I shook my husband to wake him up and said, ‘it’s happened!’”
“There were so many people who doubted that we would get a temple, but we expected it, because we believe in petitioning the Lord.”

An experience from my youth taught me something about wisdom. I was a city boy, so my father sent me to work on my uncle’s ranch in western Utah. While I was there, I never could understand why the cattle, with thousands of acres to choose from, would put their heads through the barbed wire to eat the grass on the other side of the fence. Have you ever thought about how much we’re like that? We will always push to see what the outer limits are, especially in our youth. As human beings—the natural man—we tend to push up to the barbed wire and stick our head through it. Why do we do that?

We can have so much joy in life without pushing the limits. Remember, “wisdom is the principal thing,” and with that wisdom, “enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men. Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away” (Proverbs 4:14–15). Don’t come close. Don’t put your head through the barbed-wire fence.

It was the first day of school on a hot, late-August day in New Mexico some years ago. I excitedly entered the school, looking for my friends and hoping that they would be in my fifth grade class. As I walked through the door of my new classroom, I immediately noticed that Mrs. Moore had attached every student’s name to an assigned seat. My name was attached to a desk near the front of the room and next to the bulletin board. The bulletin board was brightly adorned with “Welcome Back to School” and other decorations, as well as important fifth grade information.
Two small cards on the board, hanging almost evenly with my desk, caught my attention. The top one read: The Golden Rule: Do unto Others As You Would Have Them Do unto You. The bottom card asked: What Would Jesus Do?
Although the contents of the bulletin board changed monthly, these two cards always remained in the same place. I don’t know who put them there, but it seemed that during moments of daydreaming, my mind was drawn to them. I had heard the Golden Rule and could think of a few times when I had even put it to use with my little brothers. The question “What would Jesus do?” was not something I had ever thought much about before.
I had been baptized a couple of years earlier, and I had heard the stories of Jesus from my parents and in my Primary classes since I was little. I knew about Jesus Christ and what He did, but now as I thought about that question, I asked myself, What does it have to do with me? I knew that He was and is the Savior. Wise Men visited Him when He was a baby. He fed five thousand people with just five loaves of bread and two fishes. He calmed a raging sea. He healed people and brought the dead back to life. He died for me and was resurrected. But I’m just a ten-year-old girl. How could I ever do anything He might do?
A couple weeks into the school year, a class party was planned. I was on the food committee, and each member brought some sort of treat. There were several small watermelons, a sheet cake, and other treats. One boy brought lots of party sandwiches. We all enjoyed the party on a hot day in September. When the party was over, my committee stayed afterward and packed up the leftover food. There were several half-eaten watermelons, about ten pieces of sheet cake, and some sandwiches. We were instructed by Mrs. Moore to take it all home with us.
Even though we were late leaving school, we stopped to talk at a bench on the school grounds. Excited by the success of the party, we began planning the next one. Our excitement built until we were running and jumping off the benches and over each other.
One member of the group yelled out a reminder that we were all going to be late getting home. We continued running and jumping, but we picked up the party leftovers and went around the corner to the front of the school. There was no one in sight. No teachers’ cars or principal anywhere. We were late!
Then it happened. Splat!! Right in front of my feet landed a watermelon. The rind was broken, and the juice was spilling onto the sidewalk. Over my head flew a piece of cake. Something hit me right in the small of my back—a piece of watermelon. Its juice ran down my back, and the seeds stuck to my blouse. I immediately flung the half-eaten watermelon back at the friend who had struck me. Then I picked up a piece of cake from the ground, now soaked with watermelon juice, and flung it at another friend. The boy with the sack of sandwiches was swinging the sack madly as a shield. The sack finally burst, and became a thousand crumbs scattered in the watermelon juice. Watermelon rinds were strewn along the front of the school. Someone yelled about how late it was, and we all began running toward home.
When we came to the corner that would take us out of the view of the school, I happened to turn around. Then I saw it—watermelon carnage everywhere! My heart sank. What had we done? It had been so much fun, but I hadn’t realized what the damage would be, and I know that none of the others did, either.
I motioned for the others to turn around. A look of shock came over their faces. I asked if we should go back and at least clean up the big pieces. “No way!” “It’s too hot.” “My mom’s going to be mad if I get home any later.” “It’s the custodian’s job, anyway.” All their answers made sense to me, and I headed home, too.
But when I turned around to take one more look, the question on that card on the bulletin board came flooding into my mind: What would Jesus do?
I immediately answered myself that Jesus Christ would never have gotten into a watermelon fight, to begin with. I didn’t even know if there were watermelons where He lived almost 2,000 years ago. Besides, what the other children had said made sense, and I really needed to get home, too.
When I got home, I found my mother busy with one of my younger brothers. I was able to quietly change clothes and brush the watermelon seeds from my hair. As I was doing this, “What would Jesus do?” reentered my mind. I pictured the custodians out early in the morning, cleaning up the mess. They shouldn’t have to do that. I thought of the principal, Mr. Nance, picking up watermelon rinds and that bread sack. He shouldn’t have to do that, either. I somehow imagined that the sixth grade crossing guards might even have to clean up the mess on the crosswalk. I knew that they shouldn’t have to do that. At that moment I knew what Jesus Christ would do.
Although I knew what He would do, I still persuaded myself that it was too hot to be out on the cement and pavement, that it was too hard a job for one ten-year-old girl. But I thought about it again and again.
Finally I went and told my mom that I needed to go back to school for something. I quietly took the broom, dustpan, and a towel and got on my bike and rode toward the school.
As I got to the corner by the school, I hoped the scene had miraculously disappeared. But there it was, exactly as I had remembered. A watermelon war zone. I parked my bike and began sweeping and soaking up juice and seeds.
Two of my watermelon-flinging friends rode up on their bikes and asked me what I was doing. I timidly told them I was cleaning up the mess, hoping that they would offer to help. They only laughed and rode away.
I was carrying the watermelon rinds to the garbage can across the street, when a car approached with a woman and a small child inside. As they got close to me, the car slowed down. The woman had a look of complete bewilderment on her face. I began working faster. I wondered if I was doing the right thing—no one else seemed to think so.
But the job was finally done. Only a trace of the juice was left, along with some seeds, cake, and bread crumbs that had been baked into the hot asphalt after being run over by cars.
The next morning as I walked to school with my little brother, we saw things happening as they did every morning. The crossing guards were there. The flag was being raised. Teachers and the principal were walking the grounds. The custodians with their brooms were happily greeting everyone. Only a trace of watermelon seeds stuck to the pavement, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
I entered my classroom. None of my classmates spoke of the watermelon incident or how the mess was cleaned up. When I sat at my desk, I looked at that card on the bulletin board—What Would Jesus Do?—and I knew then what the question had to do with me, a ten-year-old girl—and every other person, regardless of age. I knew that I could do what Jesus would do, even though it might be hard and other people may not understand.

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.”

The last barrel was rushing toward me.
“Your horse isn’t on the right lead, Susan,” shouted Grandma from the fence.
I know, Grandma. You don’t need to tell me, I thought.
Leaning low over Ginger’s withers, I shifted a little to the left and tapped my horse emphatically with my right boot. Underneath me, I could feel Ginger’s long stride switch left—but not in time. Ginger went so wide around the barrel she nearly knocked me against the corral fence.
As I urged her toward the imaginary finish line, I could see Grandma shaking her head.
“That’s no way to win a rodeo prize. Those other barrel racers will whip you good.”
“Grandma, you know Ginger isn’t usually this bad!”
“That’s just the point! You’ve been working her too hard. She’ll go sour on you before she ever makes it to her first contest.”
I stuck out my lower jaw. “I can train my own horse, Grandma.”
She didn’t seem to hear me and went right on. “The way I see it …”
The trouble with Grandma living across the road is that she usually isn’t across the road. She’s at our house giving advice to everyone. Last week it was my hair for the school dance. The week before it was my “mediocre” A minus in journalism class.
“There isn’t any excuse for it,” she said. “You can write 10 times better than those other youngsters.” But Grandma’s favorite hangout was on the corral fence watching me train Ginger.
Grandma reached to scratch behind Ginger’s ears. “That sassy little blonde down in Glenville who won rodeo queen last year, she can hardly rein left or right. You better not let her beat you at the barrels.”
I leaned down and yanked the wire latch off the corral gate.
“Just push open the gate for me, Grandma,” I asked.
“You better let that horse cool down before putting her away.”
“I know, Grandma,” I sighed impatiently.
She opened the gate for me. “If you’re going to win,” she said, “you better shorten your stirrups a notch and hang more with your horse.”
I exploded. “Grandma, I’m riding, not you.”
Grandma looked up at me in surprise. Ginger danced underneath me.
I was heating up. “What do you know about horses, anyway! Have you even been on one in the last 50 years?”
I was staring right at her. I could see the hurt come into her gray eyes. But I didn’t stop. “Just leave me alone. Don’t come watch me anymore.”
I jerked Ginger toward the hay field and galloped away. My face was hot with anger. I knew Grandma was standing stiff and hurt behind me. I fumed, gritting my teeth. But as the breeze cooled my face, I knew I would apologize. I’d never seen Grandma look so hurt. I fingered Ginger’s black mane. Tomorrow would be a good day. I’d apologize tomorrow.
“Dead? Dead!” My voice started to squeak, and I felt the tears coming. I didn’t want Mother to see. “But Grandma is too young to die.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mother, putting her hands on my shoulders. “The doctor said her heart just gave out in the night.”
“But, but—not today! Grandma can’t die today! I was going to make things right.”
At the funeral I sat hunched on the bench beside my two brothers. I kept looking down, but the only thing I could see was Grandma’s hurt gray eyes. In my head pounded the words, “What do you know about horses? Don’t come watch me anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I murmured. But I knew it was too late.

Illustrations by Anna Sutor
On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission as part of my assignment as a member of the Seventy when we had a layover in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for about five hours. We were very tired, so we were both delighted to have a few hours to rest. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a strong impression that I should awaken and write down some ideas flowing into my mind.
I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with in my responsibility at Church headquarters for a number of years. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought.
Finally we left for La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the van, leaving our luggage and my briefcase inside, but only did so because Sister Allred asked an elder to keep his eye on the van.
Upon entering the office, the president was confronted by a woman whose husband was dying. Both the president and I helped calm her and assist with her needs. Meanwhile, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.
When the president and I returned to the van, all of our property was gone. I assumed that Sister Cook had taken the things with her to the mission home. But while we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front small window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that perhaps our property had been stolen.
Upon arrival at the mission home, we realized that all of our property had indeed been stolen. The loss of the clothing and a large amount of cash created an immediate but only temporary problem. What was more disheartening was that my scriptures were in the stolen briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. I was overwhelmed with discouragement, anger, and feelings of helplessness.
After we had all prayed for the recovery of our possessions, we tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. My scriptures had been given to me by my parents, with a sacred inscription to me from my mother and my father before he died. I had spent thousands of hours marking, cross-referencing, and loving the only earthly possessions I had ever considered to be of much value.
Though President Allred and I had much to discuss, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. So after supper all of those present knelt to pray once again. I pled with the Lord that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true Church.
We determined to search the area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves might have taken the saleable items and discarded the English books.
About 10 of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing. We drove up and down streets, scouring vacant lots and talking with people until we’d exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home dejected. President Allred and I finished our business late into the night, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to our home in Quito, Ecuador.
Over the next few weeks, the missionaries in Bolivia kept searching. In sheer desperation, they decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers offering a reward.
Meanwhile, in Quito, I was struggling. I had not studied the scriptures at all since mine were stolen. I had tried to study, but every time I read a verse, I could recall only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire to read. I prayed many times that my scriptures would be found. My wife and young children also continued praying every day for three weeks, saying, “Heavenly Father, please bring back Daddy’s scriptures.”
After about three weeks I felt a strong spiritual impression: “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble enough and submissive enough to start all over again. Using my wife’s scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, and with her permission, marking and cross-referencing once again.
On August 18, a Church employee, Brother Eb Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia with a package from the mission president in La Paz. He laid my scriptures on my desk along with the inspired notes I had made of my spiritual impressions.
The joy I experienced is indescribable. To realize that the Lord, in some miraculous way, could lift those books out of La Paz, a city of 700,000–800,000 people, from the hands of thieves and return them intact—not one page removed, torn, or soiled—is still beyond me. That day I promised the Lord I would make better use of my time and my scriptures than I had ever made before.
A few days later I returned to Bolivia and discovered that a lady had been in a marketplace—one of hundreds in La Paz—and saw a drunken man waving around a black book. She was a member of a Protestant church and had a strong spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there was more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then asked to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos (about U.S. $2.50).
Afterward, she felt unsure why she had purchased the books. They were in English, but she didn’t even know English. And they had been expensive—nearly 10 percent of her monthly income. She had no reason to buy the books except for her spiritual impression. She immediately began a search for the church that was named on the front of the books: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After approaching a number of churches, she finally arrived at the mission office of the Church in La Paz. She hadn’t heard about the reward or seen the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos she had paid. The elders received the books with joy and paid her the reward anyway.
She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect but listened intently as they told her about the gospel. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years previously. She accepted the missionary lessons, and after the second lesson, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, on September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon at a branch in La Paz, Bolivia, Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized.
The Lord had transformed my overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost into great feelings of joy at seeing His hand revealed. The Lord said, “Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them” (Mark 11:24).
God does hear and answer our prayers if we exercise faith in Him and in His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ.