Gospel Story Finder

“ZZZZZ …” Eight-year-old Jason faked a snore, then burst into giggles. Lying in his bed, he pulled the blanket over his eyes and pretended to sleep. Across the dark room, his six-year-old brother snuggled into his pillow, then let out a long, dreamy sigh before he started to laugh as well. “Shh!” Jason whispered, pulling the blanket off his head. “We’re supposed to be sleeping!”
“I’m sleeping. I’m sleeping!” his brother whispered back. Both boys giggled again, then pulled the sheets up under their chins, squeezed their eyes shut, and lay as stiff as possible while they waited.
In the next room, their sister also waited, pretending to sleep. Down the hall, their brother waited, pretending to sleep. Even their mom, they knew, was lying in her dark bedroom, curled up under her covers, pretending to sleep.
A floorboard creaked in the shadowy hallway. Dad was somewhere nearby. Any moment now they would hear the signal. Jason listened intently, hardly breathing as he tried to guess where Dad might be standing at that moment. He was definitely coming closer. Any second now …
“BEEEEEP!” A screech blared throughout the house. Jason dropped to the floor and crawled toward the door on his hands and knees.
“Go, go, go!” his brother yelled, bumping into Jason’s side. “We have to get out!”
“Fire!” Jason shouted, crawling into the hallway. “Everyone out!”
“Everyone out!” Mom called. “Stay low!”
Dad joined them on the floor as they crawled down the hallway, into the kitchen, and out the back door. Once outside, they stood up and ran to the maple tree.
“Are we safe?” Dad asked. “Is everyone here?”
“We all made it,” Mom said, counting heads.
Dad looked at his stopwatch. “That was our best time yet,” he said. “Now everyone back to bed—for real this time.”
The next morning, as the family gathered for breakfast, Jason thought about the fire drill. “I’m glad we have an escape plan,” he said. “I feel safer with a fire alarm in our house.”
“Me too,” Mom agreed. “Having an alarm helps keep us safe—as long as we respond quickly when we hear it go off.”
Jason finished his breakfast. “Can I go over to Brett’s house now?” he asked. Brett was Jason’s next-door neighbor and one of his best friends.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Be safe and have a good time.”
Next door, the boys played with Brett’s dog, ran through the sprinklers, and built stick forts in the mud. Then Brett suggested they go inside. “I’m hot,” he said. “Let’s play video games.”
“OK,” Jason agreed. “Maybe I can beat you this time.”
“We can try a new game,” Brett said as the boys went inside. “Have you ever played this one before?” He held up the case for a game Jason didn’t recognize.
“I don’t think so. What’s it like?”
“You’ll see,” Brett said, sliding the disc into the game console.
Brett handed Jason a controller and sat down in front of the TV. Jason sat down beside him. As the game started, a screeching alarm went off in Jason’s conscience. The characters in this game looked like real people, and the clothes they were wearing—particularly the women’s clothes—didn’t cover very much of their skin. Jason felt uncomfortable. He knew he needed to escape.
“We need to play a different video game, or I need to go home,” Jason said. “I’m not comfortable with how those people are dressed.” Jason knew his friend might think he was weird for saying that, but he also knew he needed to pay attention to his feelings.
“No big deal,” Brett said. “We can play a different game.” Brett got out a car racing game. The alarm in Jason’s mind quieted as he heard the roar of the engines in the game. For Jason, nothing could have sounded better.

When the Montreal Quebec Temple was rededicated after major renovations in 2015, open houses were organized by our local leaders. It was the ideal time to invite friends to come and see the temple.
I immediately thought of two good college friends who had already asked me about the Church and my beliefs. In the past, both of them had agreed to attend sacrament meeting at Christmastime. I had also invited them to my wedding two years earlier. That had been an opportunity to explain to them why they could come to the reception but not to the sealing ceremony in the temple.1
Still, even though I had talked with them about the Church before, I hesitated to invite them. I feared being in an uncomfortable situation if they refused. Finally, I got the courage and asked them over the phone: “Would you like to see the place where I was married? The temple is open to the public for guided tours. If that’s of interest to you, we could go together.”
The answer in both cases was a swift “Yes! I would like that.”
One of my friends came with her two children, and the other came with her spouse. It was an unforgettable experience for me. I felt immense joy in being able to share my love for the temple with them.

In 1988, we were asked to an interview with the Missionary Committee. We suspected that a calling might be in the offing, so Ed, who had had a stroke about two years earlier that affected his heart, went to the doctor first so that he would know if he could accept an assignment. The doctor was absolutely firm that Ed must not leave the country. Thus, when Ed was asked if he could accept an overseas assignment, he was very disappointed to report the doctor’s instructions. I would have supported Ed wholeheartedly in his calling, but it was not to be.

Then, a few weeks later, I was called to serve on the Primary General Board, and a year and a half later, I was called to my present position in the Relief Society.

When I was being set apart, President Thomas S. Monson, who had known us for years, said, “Eddie, Chieko has supported you in your priesthood callings—in the bishopric, as mission president, and as Regional Representative. Now it’s your turn to support her.” Ed smiled and agreed to do so. Of course, this was not a change for Ed.

After the war, her family rebuilt their lives. One day, Vinca and her parents were staying in a summer home in Aarhus in Jutland. There they happened to meet a pair of missionaries, who were seeking a place to stay. The young men were so kind and friendly, Vinca’s parents agreed to let them board in the guest quarters.
“I attended church with them for a short time,” Vinca recalls, “but my family wasn’t really into religion at all. My father was of Jewish descent, and my mother was Lutheran, but we weren’t raised in a religion. And then I had to return to school.”
The missionaries later visited her briefly in Copenhagen. Although Vinca enjoyed the visit, she was not yet ready to accept the gospel.
“I moved to Salt Lake City around 1950,” Vinca says. “I was a nurse, but I had to renew my certificate to practice in the U.S.”
The move gave her a chance to learn English better. It also gave her another opportunity to learn about the Church. She lived in the Beehive House and worked at a doctor’s office across the street. She also played the cello in the Utah Symphony and made a number of good friends.
“I attended church with them too. And I walked on Temple Square during my lunch hour every day. But I still thought of religion as something you could decide to make a part of your life as you liked.”
After two years in Salt Lake, Vinca moved to Sacramento, California, USA, and lived for a short time with the family of one of the missionaries who had taught her in Denmark. When she made enough money as a surgical nurse to support herself, she moved out on her own. She and the missionary dated and eventually became engaged.
“Things didn’t work out,” Vinca recalls, and when they broke off their engagement, she moved on, losing touch with Church members.
Not long after, Vinca met Ward, a dentist and oral surgeon who was born and raised in Sacramento. He was a strong, handsome man who had served as a navy officer during the war. Though 11 years older than Vinca, he swept her off her feet, and the two were married in 1954.
They bought a home not far from his practice. Though they could not have children, they had a wonderful, loving marriage. They worked, they traveled, he painted, and she continued to play her music. Life was good for many years.
Ward passed away in 1985. Vinca lived on in their home until about 1999, when she started feeling anxious to move. Her home was large, more than she needed, and she felt a desire for change. She discovered a small town that suited her in Haines, Alaska. She retired there, and so things would have ended if the missionaries had not come knocking on her door once more in 2006.
At last, after many chances and many years, the timing was right.
“I never really had known much about religion,” Vinca says, “but I knew some things that made me ask questions, things that disappointed me or seemed strange.
“When I learned about this gospel, everything just made sense: the plan of salvation, what is expected of us, the promises made, the Book of Mormon. I like especially the Church doctrine of temple work for those who pass away who have not been introduced to the gospel. I felt at ease about it; it was something I could accept because it was clear and open to me, like coming home.
“I finally did what I should have done a long time ago. I don’t know why it took me so long. I had met a lot of wonderful people, and they all had some influence in my decision to join the Church. It did take years, but getting baptized was the best thing I ever did.”
Vinca was baptized on October 14, 2006—on her husband’s birthday. Just a year later, she attended the temple for the first time and was sealed to Ward (by proxy) for time and all eternity. For Vinca, the experience of attending the temple and of being sealed to the love of her life “was unbelievable, beautiful.”
Having gained this supernal blessing of being sealed to her beloved husband, Vinca desires now to share temple blessings with her relatives. Though she is 86 years old and suffers from kidney failure, she is motivated.
“I hope my husband and his parents and my parents and my own brothers and sisters will accept the gospel. I have a lot of temple work to get done.
“One of my main projects in life now is to do as much temple work as I can, as much genealogy as possible. I feel I have a reason for living here. Even if I live to be 100, it’s all right. I have things to do now. It feels good, really, to be able to do it.”
As Vinca turns her gaze back to her house to head inside, she is filled with the hope that comes from the gospel of Jesus Christ. Being a member of this Church “has been a blessing in so many countless ways. You feel peace of mind. You feel stronger. When things are absolutely gorgeous, you feel, ‘Oh boy, this is heaven.’ It makes you feel grateful for living.”
Vinca lives with a grateful heart—because the fire of the gospel and the hope of eternities with her loving husband burns bright within her.

I first had contact with the missionaries in 1992. From their first discussion, I felt something special in my heart. As the discussions progressed, I learned of gospel principles that I never knew existed. The first time I attended a Church meeting, I was warmly greeted by the members as though they had always known me.
I was the first member of my family to be baptized. Now my two sisters are also members, and my father is reading the Book of Mormon.

Imagine this scene: The date was going perfectly. He knew this was the night to declare his feelings.
“I love you!” he blurted out to the woman of his dreams. “I love you … from the bottom of my temporal lobe!”
Unless the woman was a med student, this statement would probably fall short of the intended effect. The thing is, though, he’s spot on for accuracy, because the brain is the organ that processes emotions.

Seventeen-year-old Brandon Frampton shared an experience about simply saying thank you.
“At my high school, I usually eat in the cafeteria. Every day I get in line, buy my lunch, eat, and leave. One day I felt impressed to say thank you to the lady who was serving me my lunch. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but later I learned that because of my remark she had a much better day. I still always say thank you, and I have noticed others doing the same now. Everyone can make a difference.”

Several years ago, Wayne Lewis, of Washington, USA, published his life story. He gave copies to all of his children and grandchildren. “This was not done for the benefit of anyone but my family, to encourage them to write about their life experiences,” he says. Not long afterward, Wayne suffered one stroke, then another. “After the strokes, my counselor discovered that writing stories about my life was actually helping diminish the stresses brought on by brain injury, so I have continued writing about my life.” Now 88 years old, Wayne adds, “I would encourage everyone to write their life story. Act now, and use any format you think will be read by those you love.”

Felipe knew it was getting late. The birds had stopped chirping, and the crickets were humming loudly. He and his mother had walked in the forest for more than two hours. But each path they took looked the same as the last. They were completely lost.
Felipe was getting really scared. How long could they survive in this jungle? He was only 10, after all. That wasn’t old enough to fight off a snake or wild boar! And what other scary creatures might be on the prowl after sunset? The thought sent chills up his spine.
Be brave, he told himself. He knew he had to be.
Felipe wished his dad were there. But he had died six months ago. Without him, things were tough for Felipe and his mom. They were out of money and food.
Felipe hoped they could get to his sister’s house on the other side of the mountain soon. She could give them some money to buy rice.
He said a prayer in his heart. “Father in Heaven, please help us find our way. Please.”
Then a thought came to him: Look for the coconut trees. Felipe looked up. There, in the distance, was a grove of coconut trees. He could see them high above the rest of the jungle. Their palm leaves waved in the breeze. For the first time in hours, Felipe felt hope.
“Look!” He pointed to the trees.
His mother understood. Coconut trees meant a village was close. God had answered Felipe’s prayer. Felipe took his mother’s hand. Together they walked to safety as the sun dipped below the trees.
Felipe always remembered how God answered his prayer. Sometimes he wished he could hear God’s voice better like he did that night in the jungle.

Finally, there remains the intriguing possibility that historians for all these many years have viewed the whole story in reverse. In what might be the very first written record of Harris’ visit—predating Joseph Smith’s 1832 history, E. D. Howe’s 1834 account, Lucy Mack Smith’s 1844 story, and certainly B. H. Roberts’s version in the History of the Church—the celebrated Scottish-born New York journalist James Gordon Bennett, then associate editor of the Morning Courier and New York Enquirer,wrote in 1831 that Harris carried the engravings from the plates to New York and
showed them to Professor Anthon who said that he did not know what language they were—told him to carry them to Dr. Mitchell [sic]. Dr. Mitchell examined them—and compared them with other hieroglyphics—thought them very curious—and [said]they were the characters of a nation now extinct which he named—Harris returned to Anthon who put some questions to him and got angry with Harris.35

This account is elaborated upon in James Gordon Bennett’s article, published in September 1831:
They attempted to get the Book printed, but could not raise the means till Harris stept [sic] forward, and raised money on his farm for that purpose. Harris with several manuscripts in his pocket, went to the city of New York, and called upon one of the Professors of Columbia College for the purpose of shewing them to him. Harris says that the Professor thought them very curious, but admitted that he could not decypher them. Said he to Harris, “Mr. Harris you had better go to the celebrated Doct. Mitchell and shew them to him. He is very learned in these ancient languages, and I have no doubt will be able to give you some satisfaction.” “Where does he live,” asked Harris. He was told, and off he posted with the engravings from the Golden Plates to submit to Doc. Mitchell—Harris says that the Doctor received him very “purlitely,” looked at his engravings—made a learned dissertation on them—compared them with the hieroglyphics discovered by Champollion in Egypt—and set them down as the language of a people formerly in existence in the East, but now no more.36

Four elements in Bennett’s account demand serious study. First, written in 1831, it is the earliest known record of Harris’ visit to New York City. Second, Bennett states that Anthon “did not know what language they were.” This we now understand is correct, since Anthon was a grammarian, a promising but youthful scholar who knew virtually nothing about Egyptian, reformed Egyptian, or whatever kind of writings or characters were on the “Anthon Transcript.” Third, the statement that Mitchill “compared” the transcript that Harris brought him with “other hieroglyphics” conforms to what we now know of Mitchill. He not only had many such writings on hand in his cabinets of antiquities, but he had also translated ancient writings for others. Whether he tried to translate Harris’ characters on the spot is not known, but he certainly seems to have studied them carefully enough to deliver a “learned dissertation” on them and to identify them as those of “a nation now extinct which he named.” Finally, and almost certainly, he saw in these characters additional evidence for his own richly developed theories on the extinct “delicate” Australasian race that had been destroyed by the more ferocious Tartars somewhere in upstate New York not far from where Harris lived in Palmyra.

Like many of you, I am a convert to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I joined the Church when I was 18 years old. I would like to share with you how the Atonement of Jesus Christ has changed me personally.

I was raised by “goodly parents”. [26] They taught me about God and a Savior. We attended religious services every week and on special Holy Days. I attended religious training appropriate to my age. We had prayer at home. I would say we were a family of faith.

Yet, when I was in high school, I began to question my faith. It was at this same time that I had many friends from high school who were Latter-day Saints. Just after I graduated high school, the week before I left for college, one of those friends gave to me this copy of the Book of Mormon. “I will never ask you if you have read it,” she said. “But feel free to bring it up with me if you like.” Not the best missionary invitation!

As I packed my bags for college, I tossed the book into my suitcase and brought it with me. My parents and younger sister flew with me across the United States from California, where we lived, to New York, where I would start University. The dorms were not yet available, so we spent that first night in a hotel. As I sat in that hotel, I remember wondering if I should read the Book of Mormon. I was uncertain. It might be a cult? I realized I had never read the entire Bible, and I decided that before I read some new book, I should first read the Bible, get to know my own religion. I had not packed a Bible. But, having traveled a lot, I knew it was not uncommon for hotels to have a copy of the Bible in the nightstand drawer. As I opened the drawer to read the Bible, I was shocked to discover a Book of Mormon in the drawer next to the Bible! Yes, we were at a Marriott. But, I did not know that Mr. Marriott was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. To me, this was a sign. I was to read the Book of Mormon. And so I began that very night.

Over the next few months, as other freshmen were exploring the delights of New York City, I spent many hours in my dorm room reading the Book of Mormon. On my dorm floor I gained the nickname “Dan-dan the Morman.”

My high school friend had not marked any specific passages to read and so I began at the beginning. I must confess, that I did not start with the greatest of faith. I recall my attitude being something like, “let us see what this Joe Smith guy wrote, that makes my LDS friends act so weird.” I continued reading with this attitude until I was 289 pages into the book. Almost halfway through. Then I read:

“But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words. Now, we will compare the word unto a seed. Now, if ye give place, that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed, if ye do not cast it out by your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold, it will begin to swell within your breasts; and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves— It must needs be that this is a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.” [27]

At that moment, I felt those swelling motions. I realized that I had been feeling them. I began to know that this book was true. And that knowledge changed everything. I was not baptized that day, or even that month, and I had many more confirmations along the way, but that is a story for another day.

When I was a deacon, a member of our bishopric challenged our deacons quorum to read the standard works in a year. He explained that we could accomplish this goal by reading five chapters a day, and I decided to do it.
A few nights later, a guideline for accomplishing the scripture reading challenge was dropped off at my house, and I realized that it would be hard to do this by myself. I asked my family if they would join me. After some discussion, they agreed it would improve our family scripture study. We decided to start that night.
It was not easy. Some days it felt almost like a chore. I remember one night when I had to wake my family up late at night so that we could read. We were determined not to miss a night of reading, and we didn’t.
It took some creativity to reach our goal. When my dad was on a business trip we would put him on speakerphone and read together. We kept a copy of the scriptures in the car in case we were ever on the road.
As we read, our lives changed. We grew spiritually, and I found that I handled trials better. My dad was laid off from work. It was a difficult time for our family, but we gained valuable insight on Heavenly Father’s plan for us through our scripture study. I know Heavenly Father was blessing us.
When my family finished our challenge we decided that we would not stop reading and learning. We started rereading the Book of Mormon the very next day. My life has been changed forever, and I know that daily scripture study is a habit I will not break. The Spirit whispered to me that the things I read are true. We can do hard things. As I prepare for a mission I will be armed with the power of God because I acted upon this challenge from my Church leader.

Eliza R. Snow, second General President of the Relief Society, offered a riveting answer. Because of Missouri’s infamous extermination order, issued at the onset of the grueling winter of 1838,7 she and other Saints were forced to flee the state that very winter. One evening, Eliza’s family spent the night in a small log cabin used by refugee Saints. Much of the chinking between the logs had been extracted and burned for firewood by those who preceded them, so there were holes between the logs large enough for a cat to crawl through. It was bitter cold, and their food was frozen solid.

That night some 80 people huddled inside that small cabin, only 20 feet square (6.1 meters square). Most sat or stood all night trying to keep warm. Outside, a group of men spent the night gathered around a roaring fire, with some singing hymns and others roasting frozen potatoes. Eliza recorded: “Not a complaint was heard—all were cheerful, and judging from appearances, strangers would have taken us to be pleasure excursionists rather than a band of gubernatorial exiles.”

Eliza’s report of that exhausting, bone-chilling evening was strikingly optimistic. She declared: “That was a very merry night. None but saints can be happy under every circumstance.”8

A 17-year-old girl, going through the trauma of having only one parent in the home as well as the normal problems of adolescence, was called to be president of her Laurel class. Her response to this responsibility was, “I have never been so excited and thrilled about the Church in my life. I love it with all my heart and love every minute I have the privilege of serving.” Then she made another statement equally impressive. She said, “Since having received this call and having felt the responsibility, I have wanted to purify and refine my life so that I would be worthy of the call.”

On one of those dark, painful days during the divorce period, I was talking with my mother about how I hoped in the future I could find someone to love and be married to. She said, “You just do what you are supposed to do so that when the right person comes along you will be in a position to do something about it.” I knew she was talking about staying faithful in the Church and making sure that my life was in order. This was some of the most important advice that I have ever received. I am happy to report to you that I am dating an amazing woman and we are planning to be married in the near future. She is beautiful in every way and is everything that I could ever hope for. Our mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ is at the very center of our relationship. My love for her is beyond anything that I could explain to you.

An old fable, and one of my favorites over the years, tells this story:
A Japanese scholar each evening talked with workmen from a factory. One night he told the men that he would bring them something of beauty on the morrow. One man asked the scholar to bring him a rose, another asked for a branch, and the third requested a lily. The next evening he handed out the rose, the branch, and the lily.
“There is a thorn on my rose,” said the first man. The second complained, “There is a dead leaf on my branch.” “There is a clump of dirt on my lily,” cried the third.
The scholar took all his gifts back and said, “You had a beautiful rose and saw only the thorn; you had a lovely green branch and saw only the dead leaf; and on the glorious lily you saw only the clump of dirt.”

In January 2021 I was visiting my Granny Cecilia’s grave. I walked past this older man and gave him a smile and said, “Hi”. He was visiting the grave of his wife of more than 60 years who had passed away in October 2020. I immediately felt to say, “You’ll see her again.” He immediately responded that he believed that too. I told him where I went to church. He said that he had attended a few times in another ward (Dundee 2nd) with his wife and young family—around 50 years previously. I was surprised how small the world felt.

We spoke at the freezing graveside for over an hour. I felt I couldn’t put into words the experience I had and how special it felt. It felt like a dream, and I even questioned if it had happened.

A couple of months later I was going on a drive on a Sunday afternoon. The main route was closed, the alternative leading me close to my Gran’s graveyard. So, I thought I would go up for a visit.

As I pulled into the cemetery, I saw a man getting into a car, so I sped up and parked right next to him. He got out and said, “Lydia McPhee!” We hugged and he told me that on the day we originally met, he thought he had met an angel—that’s what he was telling his friends and family. He had also questioned if the experience had really happened. On that day he had felt like life wasn’t worth living anymore; he wasn’t coping well with his wife’s death. But after seeing me, things started to change, and he had hope for the first time in years. While looking over the vista of Dundee, we spoke for over two hours in the sunshine.

Almost a year went by, and I hadn’t bumped into him, so I searched for him on Facebook and found him. Within an hour he had sent me a message. We arranged to meet the following Saturday. It was good to see him. We spoke for over four hours—time flew by. We said goodbye and agreed to keep in touch and to meet more often.

The next day I was at church. Sunday school had just finished when out of the corner of my eye I saw Mike. There he was in church! He told me that he had woken up that morning and felt he had to come. He said he tried ignoring the feeling but found himself getting his suit and shoes ready whilst telling himself he wasn’t going.

I introduced him to everyone that walked by; I could feel his excitement. When I went home that day, he called me and said that he was feeling uplifted, and that everything felt right for the first time in years. He said that he wanted to be taught by the missionaries.

Mike was baptised in January this year by my dad and has been confirmed a member and received the Aaronic Priesthood. My sister Rebekah and I were the witnesses.

I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for blessing me by being involved in helping Mike. Mike is now eagerly anticipating entering the temple to receive his ordinances and be sealed to his wife, family, and ancestors.

Lester and his mother were in their backyard, raking leaves. Actually, Lester’s mother was raking leaves. Lester was leaning on his rake.
“Lester,” Mother said as she continued to add leaves to her large leaf pile, “when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother.” Lester loved to tease his mother. “When you were a little girl, you didn’t have three maple trees in your backyard—you had three thousand, so there were zillions of leaves all over the place. But you never stopped raking. Not even for a minute. Not even if it started to rain. Nope, you didn’t stop until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “Three thousand maple trees! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up in the woods! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love jumping into leaf piles.”
“What? Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
“Well, I suppose it did,” Mother said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Was this the same mother who ordered him to stay away from mud puddles and who wouldn’t let him bring worms into the house? Was she teasing him?
“Yes, fun. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“All right.” Lester shrugged, trotted over to his mother’s leaf pile, and took a half-hearted leap.
Scrunch! Crackle! Crunch! The leaf pile had become a king-size, autumn-scented pillow!
Lester giggled. His mother was right. Jumping into leaf piles was a lot of fun. In fact, it was so much fun that Lester kept jumping, and jumping, and jumping, until Mother, who’d jumped in a couple of times herself, stopped and said, “Say, Lester, when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, the instant your mother told you to stop jumping into the leaf pile, you picked up your rake and started raking all over again. And you never stopped. Not even for a second. Not even when a hurricane blew through and you had to chase your leaves all over town. Nope, you didn’t stop until you were absolutely sure that every single one of those leaves was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “A hurricane! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up on the coast! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love making leaf houses.”
“What?” Lester scratched his head. “Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
Lester’s mother laughed. “Well, I suppose it did,” she said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Where in the world was the mother who scolded him for playing with his food, the one who nearly hit the ceiling the last time he tried out one of his original cake recipes? Why, she hadn’t even let him put his mustard-marshmallow delight into the oven! She must be teasing him!
“Yes, fun. Watch.”
Then, as Lester looked on in amazement, Mother began to rearrange her leaf pile. Before he knew it, the leaf pile had completely vanished, and his mother was standing in the center of four leaf-walls. Oh, the walls were no more than a foot high and a foot wide, but Mother seemed satisfied. “Well, Lester,” she asked, “what do you think of the house?”
“Hmmmm,” Lester said. “I’ve never seen a leaf house before, so I suppose it’s OK. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Why, how thoughtless of me!” Mother quickly raked an opening in the wall closest to Lester. “I thought someone was at the front door,” she declared, smiling. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Lester entered the leaf house.
“Could I offer you something to drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Lester said. “I’d love a chocolate milk shake. But where are you going to make it? I don’t see a kitchen.”
“A kitchen!” Mother said. “Why, Lester, you’re absolutely right. I don’t have a kitchen. Would you like to help me make one?”
Lester raced out the front door of the leaf house and grabbed his rake. Then he and Mother began to add on to the leaf house. They raked a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a front porch, and a back door.
The leaf house sprawled across the entire backyard. Lester had never raked so hard or so long in his life. “This is really some kind of place!” he said as he drank his imaginary milk shake. “Don’t you think so, Mother?”
“Lester, Lester,” replied his mother, who was leaning on her rake, “did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, right after you finished building your leaf house, you started tearing it down. You had to, because in your heart you knew that those leaves didn’t belong all over your yard. They belonged in a nice, neat pile. So once again you began to rake. And you raked, and you raked, and you raked. You never stopped. Not even when it was after midnight and the worst blizzard of all time howled into your town, and two hundred polar bears wandered into your backyard and started fooling around with your leaves and you had to tell them to cut it out, because there was no way you were going to let perfect strangers mess things up, and the polar bears started blubbering, but you didn’t give a hoot, you just told them to scram and kept right on raking until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester was out of breath.
Mother smiled. “Two hundred polar bears! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up that close to the North Pole! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl and it started to get dark and I started to get hungry, I’d rake shut the front door of my leaf house and head for the backdoor of my brick house.”
“You’d just leave your leaf house?” Lester said, his eyes as big as full moons.
“Yes—I always liked to play in my leaf house the next day.”
“Wow!”
“Well, of course,” Mother said, “there was that one year when the strongest winds ever to blow across the face of the earth carried off one of my leaf houses while I was sound asleep. I couldn’t find a trace of it the next morning, even though I looked everywhere. But,” she chuckled, “other than that time, I always enjoyed playing in my leaf house the following day.”
Lester grinned. “You know, Mother, I think that I might have liked playing with you when you were little.”
“Why, thank you, Lester.”
Lester and Mother shut the front door of their leaf house, put their rakes away, and walked in the back door of their other house, where their dinner just happened to be in the oven.

When I was about nine years old, I obtained a summer job working on a farm. Most of the other boys on the field gang were older, and when I went to work the first day I noticed that everyone had a pair of leather work gloves. My hands were soon sore from my labors, and I knew I just had to have a pair of gloves like the others. I also knew gloves like those cost four or five dollars, and it would take several days to earn enough money to buy them.
That evening I went into the local market to check the price of the gloves. As I examined and tried them on, Satan began to use his influence on me. “I need these gloves right now,” I thought. “If I take them, they will never be missed, and then after I get paid,” I rationalized, “I will come back and pay for them.” It sounded logical and perfectly all right.
This is how rationalization sometimes works. I had decided that my supposed need would justify stealing the gloves. I had been in the store for quite some time trying to get up my courage, and finally I stuffed the gloves under my shirt and began to leave the store. Suddenly I thought, “I must buy something or they will suspect me,” and so I picked out the only thing I could see quickly that I could buy with a quarter. It was a pocket comb, not a very good choice for a kid with a crew cut. I went to the counter and, with sweaty hands, paid the clerk. I could feel the gloves scratching against my stomach, and I thought he would never close the cash drawer and let me leave. Finally it was over, and I started for the door. Just as I reached out to push it open I felt a large but firm hand take hold of my shoulder, and the store owner said, “Dave, didn’t you forget about the gloves under your shirt?”
My heart sank to my toes, and suddenly all the “good” reasons I had had for my act were gone. My captor called my father to come to the store, and my process of repentance began. I had learned a valuable lesson which I never forgot. That is how Satan works with this rationalization business. He can make things that you know are not right sound okay under the circumstances. He will use other people to try to persuade you, and on many occasions you will really feel that opposition that Nephi spoke about.

We are commanded to teach our children to pray and to walk uprightly before the Lord. You may remember the story that Elder Robert L. Simpson told about a three-year-old boy who knelt down with his daddy to say his bedtime prayers. Eyes were closed, heads were bowed, but no words were spoken for several moments. Soon the little boy climbed into his bed. The daddy opened his eyes and said, “But what about prayers?”
And the boy answered, “I said my prayers.”
“But I didn’t hear you,” said the daddy.
Then followed the child’s classic comment, “But Daddy, I wasn’t talking to you.” (See Proven Paths, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1974, p. 148.)