Gospel Story Finder

Although my husband and I came from families with religious and moral principles, we were not satisfied with the way our own family of five was progressing spiritually. I attended the same church we had been reared in, accompanied by our three children—Beverly, Janice, and Ralph. My husband, Raúl, didn’t go to church because he thought that all churches were businesses. He thought they were highly commercialized and that many of the leaders profited from the members’ donations. He also believed religious literature should not be purchased but should be given to people who are interested in it.
In February 1986 my husband chanced to see two Latter-day Saint missionaries walk by our house, and he called them over. His intent was to ask them if the church they represented was interested in buying a lot to build a meetinghouse on. My husband is in the real estate business, so he saw this meeting as a sales opportunity.
The missionaries were not able to give him any information on that matter, but they didn’t miss this chance to ask him if they could set up an appointment for a discussion about the restored gospel. My husband was certain this was just another church like all the others he had come in contact with before, so he asked them to come back the next day. He intended to show them that their church just used God to do business.
We received the missionaries the next day with a bit of suspicion. But as they proceeded to talk to us about the Church and its history, we began to feel something very special in our hearts. When they left they gave us copies of the Book of Mormon, and my husband asked how much he owed for them. To his surprise, the books were free. His surprise was even greater when he realized that this Church was not a business. He became interested and started asking the missionaries all kind of questions.
We went to church every Sunday after that, and by 15 July 1987 our whole family had become converted. We were baptized and later were sealed for eternity as a family in the temple. Our son, Ralph, served as a full-time missionary and later married in the temple. Our two daughters have married returned missionaries in the temple, and we now have nine beautiful and healthy grandchildren.
My husband and I have served in many callings in the Church and have continued to grow spiritually and to help the gospel grow in our branch, located in the southern part of our beautiful isle of enchantment, Puerto Rico. My husband has presided over the Salinas Branch twice. The work has been hard, but we know that our example as a branch has left many seeds scattered over our little town.
What more could we ask of our Heavenly Father? Our gratitude is eternal. What started as a simple sales conversation and an effort to prove the Church was a business came to be the greatest possible celestial transaction for our family—the opportunity to be united with each other, with our Savior Jesus Christ, and with our Heavenly Father.

“Hi, my name is Robbie. I’m a senior in high school. Last night I had the inspiration that I need to write in a journal, so that’s what I’ll do. I kinda have already, but I’m hit-and-miss on random pieces of paper.”
This was the first official entry in Robbie S.’s journal. “It just kind of started like that,” Robbie says, “and then it started to transform, and I started to figure out why I needed to keep a journal.”
Robbie explains that he used to think keeping a journal was just for posterity, but then as he read in the scriptures each day and actually wrote down the impressions and ideas that came to him as he read, an important discovery came to him: “When I started to read my scriptures and write in my journal at the same time, I figured out that’s one way you receive revelation.”
Since ninth grade, Robbie had been consistently reading from the scriptures, but it was after turning to the “Pray and Study the Scriptures” section in Fulfilling My Duty to God: For Aaronic Priesthood Holders that he decided to transform his scripture reading into scripture study. He set a goal to read from the Book of Mormon every day and write in a journal about what he had read and about his day. Robbie liked how he could set his own goals in Duty to God. He says it was more personal and he felt like he was doing more than just checking off boxes to earn an award. “I really like that Duty to God is something you do your whole life,” he adds.
“As I studied the scriptures and wrote things in my journal afterward, I would look down at what I had written and say, ‘That is not me who wrote that.’ It was personal inspiration given directly to me from God. I have received answers to prayers and counsel for my life on things that I need to do better. I had no idea revelation worked that way.”

One afternoon my younger sister Camilia and I were playing while my dad was mowing the lawn. We decided to help him. Even though it was very hot, we had fun working together. When we finished, we went with my dad to return the lawnmower to our elderly neighbor. When we got to her door, my dad offered to mow her lawn too. My sister and I decided to help too. While he mowed, we picked up the grass and put it in a bag. When we finished, the neighbor said, “Thank you so much, Sofia and Camilia, for cleaning my yard. You are very sweet and caring girls.” Then she gave us some candy. We went home very happy, not just because we had candy but because we had served our neighbor.
Sofia Carolina P., age 9, Argentina

The door burst open. Cold winter air rushed into the hall with Billy. Mike, his older brother, crowded in behind, followed by Mom and Dad.
“Grandma! We’re here for dinner!” Billy shouted. He hurried into the kitchen, smelling spicy pumpkin pie, roasted turkey, and sage dressing.
Grandma smiled. “It’ll take a while to get dinner on the table, boys,” she said. “You’ll find crayons and paper on the hall table. How about a picture?”
At the table, Mike began coloring, but Billy peered into the living room. It was full of porcelain figurines, an old sugar bowl, and other treasures. Grandma called them heirlooms. Each had its own pioneer story.
Billy’s gaze fastened on a small mirror on a shelf. Billy loved the mirror most because its story was his favorite.
It had come across the plains with Great-Great-Great-Great Grandma in a covered wagon. She was a little girl then—Billy’s age now. At the end of long days, she cried because her feet hurt from walking and her face hurt from sunburn. Sometimes she saw Indians and was frightened.
The girl’s mother would hand her the little mirror. “Look at yourself in the mirror,” she would say gently. “Heavenly Father will take care of His child.” And the little girl would be comforted, say her prayers, and go to sleep.
Billy turned away from the living room and was reaching for a red crayon when the big oval mirror at the end of the hall caught his eye. He forgot about the crayon, walked to the mirror, and stretched as tall as he could.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Trying to see a child of God.”
“Too short, huh?” Mike said. Under the mirror, a low shelf held Grandma’s prized Boston fern. “I’ll give you a boost up to the shelf.”
With Mike’s arms around him, Billy kicked his feet in search of the shelf. He found the shelf, but knocked the fern to the floor. Black dirt spilled all over the carpet. The fern was smashed and broken, its bare roots sticking into the air.
Suddenly the shelf gave way. Billy bumped heads with Mike as he fell, then landed facedown in the dirt.
“What will we do?” Billy whispered, pushing himself up.
“Sometimes the cat gets on the shelf,” Mike said. “Maybe Grandma will think the cat did it.”
“But it wouldn’t be the truth,” Billy said. “We did it, so we should tell.”
“OK, but let’s wait until after dinner.”
“Wash up and come to dinner, boys,” Mom called.
When the two boys sat down at the table, Grandpa said the blessing. Everybody started to eat, but the food tasted like rubber in Billy’s mouth.
“Is something wrong?” Dad asked.
“I don’t like peas very much,” Billy mumbled.
Dad frowned. “How did you get the bump on your forehead?”
“Excuse me,” Billy mumbled, and fled to the bathroom.
Mom and Dad followed him. “Are you sick?” Mom asked.
Billy shook his head. “I stood on Grandma’s shelf. It broke. When I fell, Mike and I bumped heads. I just wanted to see a child of God in the big mirror.” Billy’s chest heaved. “Grandma’s fern is ruined. I feel awful—not at all like a child of God.”
“I helped him get on the shelf,” Mike said in a soft voice from behind Mom and Dad. “We didn’t know it would break. I don’t feel like a child of God either.”
“We thought maybe you’d think the cat did it,” Billy said. “We decided to tell the truth after dinner.”
“Well, now,” Grandma said, joining them. “No matter what you do, you are always a child of God. But I’m glad that you chose to tell the truth.”
Grandpa looked at the bent brackets that had held the shelf to the wall. “I reckon this can be fixed,” he said. “Grandma’s fern can be repotted. It looks pretty bedraggled, but it’ll likely grow out again.”
Grandma put the broken fern into the pot. “Even if it doesn’t grow, I can get a new plant,” she said. “But I could never replace these two children of God.”
“Look,” Dad said, holding Billy up to the mirror. “See the child who was tempted to blame the cat, but didn’t? How about giving him a smile?”
Billy managed a weak smile.
Back at the table, Billy noticed that everything—even the peas—now tasted delicious.
After dinner, Billy held the little mirror as Grandma told the story of how it had comforted the girl who was his long-ago grandma.
When the story was finished, all of them took a turn telling something each was thankful for. Billy looked into the little mirror and said, “I’m thankful to be a child of God.”

When 14-year-old Ken Welty of Centerville, Utah, learned that people in Africa needed food desperately, he decided to raise money for seeds to send to Africa.
First, Ken handed out fliers explaining what he was doing and which seeds needed to be purchased. After checking with seed companies about growing requirements, Ken assembled and sent seed packets for tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, corn, and other foods to contacts in Mali and Botswana.
The project was a real eye-opener for Ken. “My mom and dad have jobs, and they bring home the food for us to eat,” Ken explains. “It was weird to think that there are people over in Africa who are a lot older than me, but because of my service project I am helping them feed themselves.”

There was something strange about mom and dad both coming to my room to say good-night. It seemed like they had something on their minds. Mom said, “We received a great blessing in the mail today, Jan.” Then dad added, “I have been called to be a mission president. Here is a letter from President Kimball. You will want to read it.”
My heart dropped. Where? When? Do I have to go, too? My eyes began to sting. I didn’t even attempt to hold back the tears. I wanted mom and dad to know that what they were saying was destroying my world. It wasn’t fair. Imagine asking a young, involved, excited sophomore in high school to pack away all her dreams and go out into the mission field without her friends or her older brothers or sisters for three years!
“Sweetheart, this is such a special opportunity and calling,” mom said soothingly. Then dad said, “If you want me to say no, I will. We can’t accept this call without the support of all our family.”
“No way, daddy,” I said through my tears. “We will have to think of something else. Can I live with someone here and finish school? Maybe one of my brothers or sisters wouldn’t mind.” Then the thought struck me: How could I function without mom and dad there to help me along the way? How could I stand it? We had always been so close.
Mom was the Young Women president in the stake and dad the stake patriarch. No wonder the Lord called them to preside over a mission, but why couldn’t He have waited until I was finished with high school and out of the nest? Why was I the only one left to go with them? Why was I born five years after the rest?
Then I noticed the tears in dad’s eyes and saw mom’s face full of hurt. I realized then that leaving home for them would be anything but easy. They would have to leave children and grandchildren, their friends, and home. I knew they were willing, so I took a deep breath and decided I could give it my best shot, at least for the summer.
Where would we be? It could be any place in this wide world. We talked a lot about different places in the world where we would like to live. But somehow, home in Bountiful, Utah, still seemed the very best place for me. I started hoping we would be assigned to the Salt Lake City North Mission.
The assignment came on April 1, 1979. Only missionaries know the feeling of anticipation that letter can bring. As we opened the envelope, the first thing I saw were three familiar signatures at the bottom, and then slowly I raised my eyes to the body of the letter. There it was. We were called to the Mississippi Jackson Mission.
Mississippi … where was Mississippi? I had no idea which state it was except that it was down south. Dad got out the map and the World Book. Excitement began to grow, even in me. This could be kind of fun, seeing new country and meeting all those missionaries. I have to admit I had no intention of breaking school ties and staying down there beyond summer, to go to a school where I might be the only Mormon in my class.
To my utter amazement, my older brothers and sisters envied me. My oldest brother, Craig, really encouraged me. “Jan,” he said, “this is a chance of a lifetime.” I was glad they were excited for me, but still I figured those words were easy enough for them to say, easier than for me to do.
I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My world was changing, and I didn’t want it to. As a teenager I was struggling to find security by developing my talents, getting involved in many things, and in making lots of friends. I belonged and felt comfortable. Drill team tryouts were just over, and I had made it. I was a Vykette!
How could I ever give up that dream? I had so many other dreams. The one I had yet to achieve, and the most important of all, was to be in the madrigals chorus. Being in that singing group would be the highlight of my senior year if I were lucky enough to make it. However, summer was still before me, and I decided to spend it down south regardless of all my school anticipations.
That first summer, dad and mom and I traveled a lot getting acquainted with the wards and branches. I found that I did have a family after all with about 80 big brothers.
Our big family decision that summer was still what to do with Jan. Building a foundation for a new mission meant dad had to travel much of the time and mom needed to be with him to get to know the missionaries, their needs, and the areas. We all prayed about it, and the decision was made. I could go back to Viewmont High School in Utah and live with my brother David, his wife Pamela, and Kimi.
My junior year at Viewmont was wonderful, packed with lots of drill team memories, book learning, work with the junior class committee, special dances, fun with family, and spiritual and fun times with my Laurel class. Only my journal and my Heavenly Father knew of all my lonely times without my parents. The phone bills also gave unmistakable evidence.
In the spring after an especially exciting day, I just had to call “home” to tell mom and dad the big news. The voice on the other end of the line said, “Honey, we’re glad you called. We were just going to call you. Dad and I have talked to the headmaster at Jackson Preparatory School, and they have room for you this next year. We know this is where you should be. We really want you to plan to come here for school next year.” Silence. I felt my world slipping again.
“But, mom, I just can’t. I tried out for madrigals just yesterday, and I feel so good about it. My big dream, remember?” I cried, and mom cried. How could I leave everything and everyone? All my dreams of being a senior at Viewmont—I had waited so long. But when parents like mine say they both have a strong feeling that I should do something, I know that I should. When I said, “Okay, mom and dad, I will come,” a sweet, peaceful feeling came over me, and I knew it would be all right.
The second summer was filled with zone conferences and youth conferences. It was great fun seeing the missionaries again. The number had grown from 80 to 160, so there were many new ones to get acquainted with.
I was enrolled in a college preparatory school, Jackson Prep, which seemed to be number one in everything—academics, sports, drama, music. I was scared to death to start there. Aside from a couple of girls in the neighborhood, I didn’t know a soul.
My classes were tough and were taught like college courses. Everyone bought their own books and we were to take notes on lectures every day. Exams were held often. To add to my potpourri of confusion, I was told that I was being watched because I was a Mormon—the only one in the entire school. I felt that I was stuck in a spot, although not necessarily a bad one. I could make it good or bad depending on one thing—my attitude.
I had all kinds of good advice from the missionaries and others on just what I should say and do, but when that first dreaded day of school arrived, I forgot it all and barely made it home and through the front door before I broke down and wailed as if my heart were broken. There sat mom hurting too, but at least she was there for me. We cried together as I explained, “Mom, the kids are so different. I can’t understand the teachers.” The teachers spoke with a strong southern accent, and I found myself writing notes from their lectures that weren’t anything near what they actually said. I hadn’t quite mastered the language yet.
“Oh,” I sobbed, “besides that, today I was one minute late for my English class. When I finally found the room, my teacher made me stand up in front of everyone and explain why I was late.” At first mom looked at me, attempting to give me some motherly consolation, but then we both started to laugh. Mom and usually dad were always there to listen as I unfolded the happenings of the day, and we found that laughing was a lot more fun than crying. Things did get better.
As I started the school year, I made some promises to my Heavenly Father. The memory of a special blessing given to us by President Ezra Taft Benson just before we came into the mission field helped me to set my goals. I knew if I did all I could to be a good example and symbol of the Church for Him that He would send special opportunities to me.
I found myself, miraculously, a member of a new madrigal singing group, a member of the chamber singers, and of the acappella choir at school. I also found great friends in my choir director and drama director. I gained many new friends as I participated in two dramatic productions that year. Getting into these activities wasn’t all my idea. I had a little mother behind me all the way, encouraging me to get involved.
Slowly but surely, I gained respect from my friends and teachers, and I almost welcomed all the teasing about being a Mormon. It wasn’t unusual at all to have someone come into my first period class waving an article they had found on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or on the Church’s stand on abortion.
Everyone seemed interested in the Mormons, and even though they would kid me a lot, I think they were impressed that a group of people could stick to their guns and pass up liquor and tea and coffee, not just once in a while, but all the time. Defending the Church wasn’t hard anymore. It was kind of fun. Who would be up to bat next, and whose hits could I catch?
The best opportunity I had defending the Church was when I became involved with the Junior Miss Pageant as a contestant for Capitol City’s Junior Miss. Many of the senior girls were trying out, and I decided to go for it, too.
Once I was picked as one of the 20 contestants, there were dances to learn, a short course on modeling, a talent number to prepare, and studying to do for a personal interview with the judges. It was great. Twenty girls from different schools learning together and having fun and not a Mormon except me in the bunch. Excitement began to mount as the pageant drew near. Our interviews were scheduled the afternoon of the pageant.
Finally, it was my turn, and I nervously walked up the long flight of stairs to the room where the five judges awaited. At first they just visited with me. Then an older, quiet man began asking questions about my religion—tough questions. It took me back for a moment. Then I got hold of myself and answered the best way I knew how. The words flowed freely, and I felt as if my eyes were relaying the message as well as my words. I knew I received lots of extra help from above that day. What I said must have satisfied the judges because that night number 10 was crowned Capitol City’s Junior Miss—I was number 10!
As friends and mom and dad crowded around and hugged me, my mind reflected back to the hateful feelings I had felt at first after reading “the call.” Now in my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the chance. I felt so happy—happy for wonderful friends who accepted me with all kinds of southern hospitality and for friends at home who kept reassuring and encouraging me with their love. I was happy for a wonderful family like my sisters who received calls from a bawling baby sister and always ended up making her laugh. Most of all I was happy for a dad and mom who stood by through it all and guided me with all their love.
What happened to that year I was so afraid of? I shudder to think of missing my year at Prep. There was, however, a constant concern in my heart. What more can I do to let everyone know that the Church is true? A Book of Mormon with my personal testimony written in the front to each of my teachers helped satisfy that unrest. Each one promised to read that precious book.
I am now so thankful that I listened to my wonderful family and accepted the challenge of the mission field. It means so much to me to have become a part of my dad’s special calling. I grew up a lot and learned many important lessons through my experiences in Mississippi. Things that make us grow never are easy, and now when I look back, I can’t really remember the rough times. I only remember the great ones.
All the friendships I made in Mississippi continue to grow sweeter as time passes, and maybe someday some of the seeds planted there will flourish. I guess most of all I learned how to totally rely on my Heavenly Father. This lesson will stay with me not only for today but forever.

It is July 1984. The men’s gymnastics all-around competition of the Los Angeles Olympics is in its final round. Li Ning, the Chinese gymnast, has just completed a near-perfect routine on the horizontal bar with a score of 9.85 out of 10. That means the next—and final—competitor, a young American from Los Angeles, must score even higher to win the gold medal.
Peter Vidmar quietly rubs chalk on his hands, takes a deep breath, and walks onto the mat. He thinks of the World Cup meet in Zagreb, Yugoslavia, where Li Ning beat him in the horizontal bar and the all-around. Then he thinks of the first time he, Peter, ever received a perfect score of 10. The event was the horizontal bar. And at the meet, in Saarbrücken, West Germany, he won four gold medals.
Another deep breath. There’s not time now to think of the past. Nothing to think of but the routine. Concentrate! He signals his readiness to the officials.
Back uprise, free hip circle, California hop, front Stalder, into a giant swing. The fluid, nonstop circling revolves around the wooden bar. Hecht half turn, straddle regrasp, immediate flyaway with half turn regress, kip change, another giant swing to build momentum. Drop to a dislocate, hit an immediate giant, now the straddle front flip and recatch. There’s electricity in the audience! Kip change, giant, pirouette, another giant. Don’t slip on the Stalder! Two more giants now, nice and big and easy. A smooth arch into a half-in, half-out layout. Come on, Peter! Stick the landing!
His feet plant deep in the cushioning mat and momentum almost topples him forward. But he stands firm, then stretches his arms out wide. A smile as big as the world stretches across his face. And the crowd—the crowd goes crazy! “Vidmar! Vidmar! Vidmar!” the fans are shouting. The score is posted: 9.9! Vidmar wins the gold medal for the USA!

Molisi hurried to finish weaving his palm-leaf basket. He tucked the last end in and raced toward the water. When the tide was low, he and other boys collected fingota (shellfish) for supper. Their mothers would steam them with vegetables from their gardens.
When Molisi arrived home his mother was preparing supper in the kitchen, a small room separate from the house.
“Here, Mother,” he said, giving her the food that he’d brought. “May I go now?”
“Yes, but don’t be gone long. Supper’s almost ready.”
Molisi knew that his mother thought that he was going swimming, but today he had something more important to do!
Molisi needed money to buy a new white shirt. He was to be ordained a deacon on Sunday, and he wanted to honor his priesthood by dressing properly. His father, Sione Loni, had been a missionary and had been known in the Tongan islands as a very faithful member of the Church. Molisi wanted to be just like him; he wanted to look like the missionary picture his mother had of his father.
Since his father died, his mother supported the family by selling crops from their garden. She also sold copra (dried coconut meat). For all her hard work, she earned very little money and there was never enough.
Molisi had to earn the money for the shirt himself. He didn’t want his mother to even guess how important it was to him—she had enough to worry about. Only his Primary teacher and his best friend, Latu, knew about his plans.
Weeks ago he had planted talo (a starch root) in a place in their garden where his mother wouldn’t find it. Now it was ready to take to the market. Sister Lile, his Primary teacher, had said that she would sell it there for him, and tomorrow was market day.
Swiftly Molisi dug up the roots. He washed off the dirt, wrapped the roots in wet leaves, and placed them in a basket. Gathering up the basketful of talo together with mats and baskets that he had woven to sell, he walked as fast as he could to Sister Lile’s home.
She pulled back the leaves and looked at the roots. “That’s the best talo I’ve seen,” she said. “I’m sure that it will sell well.” She looked at the empty baskets. “These baskets are tight and well woven too. But, Molisi,” she added unhappily, “this still won’t bring enough money.”
The boy’s heart sank. He had worked so hard. “If I catch some fish to sell, too, will it be enough?” he asked anxiously.
“It wouldn’t be enough for a ready-made shirt,” she said after thinking for a minute, “but I could buy enough material to make you one myself.”
“Thank you, Sister Lile,” Molisi told her gratefully as he hurried away. “I’ll bring the fish early in the morning.”
On his way home he stopped at Latu’s and asked if he wanted to go fishing too.
“What are you up to?” his mother asked as he gulped his supper. “You’ve been acting strangely lately.”
“Latu is going fishing with me,” he answered. “I don’t want to be late.”
“We could use some fish for breakfast,” his mother said, smiling at him as he finished his supper. She was proud of Molisi. She knew that he worked hard to help feed the family.
“There will be fish for breakfast,” he promised her.
Latu was already at the beach when Molisi got there. Neither of the boys owned a fishing pole or a boat, so they speared fish in the shallow water of the tide pools.
Latu was sending fish to market too. He and his brothers helped provide for their family also. They laughed together as they worked, and they worked hard. But by sundown, they had just three hohomo (a kind of fish) each.
“You can have my fish,” Latu offered. “I can catch some more tomorrow.”
“No,” Molisi answered. “Your family needs money too.”
They sat on the sand to think. Suddenly Molisi jumped up. “There is enough fish,” he said.
“How can that be?” Latu asked.
“There’s enough hohomo to send to market if we have something else, too,” Molisi told his friend. “There’s one thing that my family would rather have than hohomo: ’uo (lobster).”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Latu exclaimed. “Let’s go get my lantern. We’ll need it to find the ’uo in the dark.”
The boys ran back to Latu’s home. They put their hohomo in water to stay fresh, then returned to the beach. It was very dark. The light from the maama kasa showed many scurrying ’uo. Careful to not get pinched by the big claws, they grabbed the lobsters and put them into woven baskets.
“We’ll have a feast tomorrow!” Latu whooped. “These are the biggest ’uo that I’ve ever seen.”
“There’s enough to give Sister Lile a basketful, too,” Molisi said happily. “It can be a thank-you gift from me.”
“Sunday is just three days away,” Latu said with concern. “Will she have time to make your shirt?”
“I don’t know. But I know that she’ll do it if she can. And won’t mother be surprised if I show up for church in a white shirt?”
Early the next morning Latu and Molisi took their fish and lobsters to Sister Lile. She was pleased with the fish and the ’uo.
“There is enough,” she told Molisi. “And the shirt will be ready for Sunday.”
The next two days seemed to last forever. Molisi could hardly eat or sleep. His mother watched him anxiously, afraid that he was sick. Finally Sunday came. When Molisi put on his new shirt, he felt truly special. He knew that his father would be proud of him. Molisi went to the kitchen. His mother turned as he came in the door.
“Molisi! Where did you get that shirt?” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked at him. “You look just like your father.”
Molisi grinned. “I earned the money for the material and Sister Lile made it for me.”
It was a proud family that walked to church that day. Sister Lile and Molisi’s mother both beamed when Molisi passed the sacrament. The Loni family had the priesthood in their home again!

I mentioned the young man in another setting. Later I received an unsigned letter that began, “Elder Gong, my wife and I have raised nine kids … and served two missions.” But “I always felt I would not be allowed in the celestial kingdom … because my sins as a youth were so bad!”

The letter continued, “Elder Gong, when you told about the young man gaining hope of forgiveness, I was filled with joy, beginning to realize that maybe I [could be forgiven].” The letter concludes, “I even like myself now!”

Midway through our final year in the mission field, after the pandemic had largely passed, our family was invited to eat at the home of a local Church leader. After dinner, as I sat alone with this dear friend, the conversation took a surprising turn. A former mission president himself, he suggested that personal turbulence might be ahead for me. With a grandfatherly smile, he said that most of the mission presidents he knew—himself included—had experienced very real challenges as they returned to their former lives and professional careers and that my so-called fourth year of mission leadership may well prove to be the most trying. I silently wondered, “How could life get more difficult than leading a mission during a pandemic?” I left that evening subdued by his comments.

A few weeks later, an unanticipated trial not of my own making came into my personal life. This unforeseen challenge left me grasping for understanding. Like my missionaries, I had planned on sacrificing specific things, but this turn of events was totally unexpected. In my anguish I grumbled to my wife, “I’ve tried to do everything right! I’ve willingly sacrificed and consecrated and given my heart and soul to the Lord and His missionaries! How can things possibly go this way? This is a cost I never imagined paying when we accepted our assignment.”

I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I began to loathe my wife’s cheerful mission stickers. There were times when I wept as I walked in the woods near our mission home. After my tears dried, I would counsel with and uplift struggling missionaries, smiling outwardly while sorrowing inside. “This is not what I signed up for!” I lamented in my personal prayers.

Ultimately, it was my Savior and a handful of His disciples who rescued me. My dear wife and missionary companion, one of the few who was aware of my trial, reminded me of the goodness of our Father in Heaven and the Savior. Special friends ministered to me in meaningful ways and created a new path forward for me to follow. I was buoyed up by reading about the experiences of ancient Saints such as the apostle Peter and of modern Saints who had consecrated their all when called upon. My daily study of the Book of Mormon especially helped me remain spiritually centered on the Savior. Transcribing, annotating, and sharing the personal records of William and Rachel Atkin and their fellow handcart pioneers soothed my soul. Like them, I wanted to be faithful to my temple promises and remain on the covenant path. Ultimately, the meekness the Savior demonstrated during His mortal ministry inspired me to be increasingly humble and forgiving. I learned a great deal about the majesty of the character of Christ during this wintry season of my life.

Since those challenging days, a silver lining has emerged in my personal life that continues to brighten. I am regularly reminded that just as there are known and unknown costs, there are also anticipated and unanticipated blessings that far surpass any cost we are asked to pay. I am grateful for a patient Savior who allows me to count and recount the costs of my discipleship.

Elder Henry B. Eyring has told a story about his father, Dr. Henry Eyring, a renowned chemist and university professor who in his late seventies contracted bone cancer, which made movement difficult. As the senior high councilor in his stake, he was responsible for the welfare farm. Dr. Eyring and his group worked a long, full day to complete the job of weeding a field of onions.

The man weeding the row next to Dr. Eyring watched as this great university chemist pulled himself along on his stomach with his elbows, wrenching up the unruly weeds as he went. It was an awkward process and obviously painful; the cancer in his hips made it impossible for him to kneel. Yet as he dragged himself he smiled, laughed, and talked happily with his fellow members as they worked in that row of onions.

Near the end of the day, after all the onions were weeded, someone exclaimed, “Henry, good heavens! You didn’t pull those weeds, did you? Those weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway.” Dr. Eyring laughed at the error that would have brought fury to many people’s lips.

When Dr. Eyring told his son the story, Elder Eyring looked at his aging father and asked, “How could you take it so pleasantly?”

At that point Dr. Eyring said something that his apostle son will never forget. He said, “I wasn’t there for the weeds.” (See Henry B. Eyring, “Waiting upon the Lord,” BYU 1990–91 Devotional and Fireside Speeches [Provo: Brigham Young University, 1991], pp. 21–22.)

Sometimes it will be hard to see where you are going or you may find yourself in the wrong row of the onions, but remember this: You didn’t come for the weeds. They’re merely what you are doing while you learn true patience.

Rex couldn’t tie his shoes by himself like Hector Pembroke next door or eat all his string beans or pronounce the name of the mailman—Mr. Stanislaus—or say short prayers. Rex thought all of Heavenly Father’s creatures needed to be blessed, and so he blessed all those he could think of—lions, tigers, bears, elephants, skunks, mice, dogs, and cats. Speaking of cats, what four-year-old Rex especially couldn’t do was run as fast as old Percival did every time Rex wanted to hug him!
But Rex didn’t mind all these things he couldn’t do, because sometimes he had a feeling that he could be anything or anybody, anywhere or anytime he wanted. Rex’s stuffed panda, Freddy, knew about his feeling, for Rex told him everything. What It was, Rex wasn’t sure. Did It have a name, he wondered. He couldn’t see It or touch It or smell It. He didn’t know if It was round or square or had any shape at all. It went to bed with him and Freddy and woke up with him in the morning. Rex was sure that something that special just had to have a name! He asked Freddy one night. But Freddy only stared, like he always did.
One day when Rex just couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself any longer, he talked to his mother and asked her if It had a name. Rex’s mother smiled. Then she put down her work and got a pencil and a big piece of paper and wrote down
I - M - A - G - I - N - A - T - I - O - N.
Rex could hardly believe his eyes! That was the biggest word he had ever seen. In fact, it looked and sounded big and strange enough to be a grown-up word. And what’s more, it looked harder to say than Mr. Stanislaus.
After his mother explained what the big word meant, Rex could hardly wait to use his i-m-a-g-i-n-a-t-i-o-n again. First, he imagined that he was Wonderman. He could save the whole world! And he would have if Mother hadn’t told him that the world would have to wait until after his nap to be saved. Rex yawned and nodded. After all, saving the world was no small undertaking, and even a super hero needed his rest.
After his nap Rex helped Dad pull weeds in the corn patch, but he was really Jungleman. The stalks of corn became an African forest. And it was Jungleman who bravely explored its dark depths, ready and alert for danger.
To Rex, an earthworm easily became a large and deadly snake and Percival became a ferocious lion. But even if Rex couldn’t catch Percival (the ferocious lion), he could chase him out of the garden (jungle), leaving his backyard (Africa) peaceful and safe once again.
Sometimes when Rex became tired of saving his friends in the jungle, he put on the green cape Mother made him and turned into Birdman. In less time than it took old Percival to roll over, Rex could make the change, then all at once the grass beneath his feet became the tops of trees far, far below as Birdman flew daringly among the pirate cloud ships that sailed wildly by in the ocean of a blue summer sky.
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, Rex’s bath water became fierce ocean waves and Rex became the prophet Nephi, who could calm the savage sea.
There were times, though, when Rex put his i-m-a-g-i-n-a-t-i-o-n to rest—happy times when Dad would hold Rex on his lap and tell him about the sun and the moon and the little creatures. He also liked the times mother bandaged his knee if his green cape didn’t work very well and he fell down. Rex enjoyed the special times when he went with his parents to church and got to shake hands with Bishop Berry.
Rex felt important because he was important. His dad and mother often told him that he was the finest boy in the whole world. Then Rex would think, It’s just as much fun to be myself as it is to imagine I’m someone else.

In the mid-1970s when the Jiménez family of Cádiz joined the Church, people turned against them. Their little son was dismissed from the nursery school he attended. Clients for their shoemaking and shoe repair business gradually deserted them. They survived in part because they had heeded President Spencer W. Kimball’s (1895–1985) counsel to build up their food storage after hearing him speak at a conference in Europe in 1976. But they struggled.

Things are better now. The Lord has blessed them with new, more reliable clients, Enrique Jiménez says, and they have lived to see the day when neighbors and acquaintances ask how to get whatever it is that makes their family stand out.

The Jiménez family is large by Spanish standards today—eight children. Families of two, sometimes three, children are more common. Costs of supporting a family are high, and the average family has a piso—a two- or three-bedroom flat on one floor of an apartment building. The Jiménez family has two pisos in a building on one of the narrow, winding cobblestone streets in old Cádiz.

In the Jiménez living room, a specially made tabletop is stored out of the way until mealtime, when it fits onto a smaller table so the whole family can sit down to dinner together. Others ask Margarita Jiménez how she and her husband are able to support such a large family; she replies that the Lord blesses them by meeting their needs and helping her to manage well what they have.

Their challenges have not gone away, Enrique says, but the ability to meet them has grown. “The Lord has tried me many times, but He has always made the way for me to pass the test.” Enrique currently serves as first counselor in the bishopric of the Cádiz First Ward, Cádiz Spain Stake, and his wife is a counselor in the Relief Society presidency. Through the years, they have led the way in service; all of their children are active in the Church, and three sons have served missions.

Alana, 15, sat with her mother, Rachel, scanning a list of goals Alana could work on when Alana’s dad, Jeff, walked by. “Which of these should I do, Dad?” Alana asked.

Jeff looked at his watch, grimacing a little, and glanced at the list. “Um, this one looks easy. How about ‘Memorize a hymn’? You can get that one checked off fast. What else looks easy?”

Jeff paused. Something didn’t feel right, so he took the time to think about what it was.

I’m late, he thought. I just want to get this over with. I’m not very good at this parenting stuff. Hmmm. He looked at his daughter and then realized he felt other feelings too. Hope. Delight. This was not just about checking things off. This was about her growth. And this was a chance to connect with her. A smile spread across his face.

“Let’s stop and think about this,” he said. “What if we each write down what we have felt prompted to work on lately?”

“Um, OK,” said Alana. Rachel found pencils and paper, and they spent a few minutes thinking and writing.

“OK,” said Rachel. “Now what?”

Alana remembered, “I think we’re supposed to pray about it and then choose a goal and make a plan. But Dad, do you really think Heavenly Father cares about what goal I choose?”

Jeff reflected. “You have lots of good ideas, so maybe Heavenly Father just wants you to choose one to start with. But I am absolutely sure of one thing. Heavenly Father cares about you.”

“I know you want to use your gifts to make a difference,” added Rachel, “so if one of these is more important, I’m sure Heavenly Father will help you feel that.”

Alana smiled, then remembered, “President Nelson asked the youth to do a thorough assessment of our lives. Can I go get what I wrote?”

“Sure!” said Jeff, smiling. He looked at his watch again. “Oops, I’ve got to run. Find what you wrote and let’s talk at dinner, OK? I have some questions that might help.”

“Great!” said Alana, smiling. “And, Dad? Mom? Thanks.”

Real missionary work is, of course, based on real love, and an experience of these fine young Latter-day Saints proves it. They worked for a long time to reactivate a member of the priests quorum, but it soon became clear that he wasn’t interested. They made it equally clear to him that they still wanted to be his friends, and recognizing their sincerity he was happy to have it that way. When he was in the hospital some time later, they visited him often, not to activate him, but just because they loved him. He got the message without their having to give it to him and took the first steps toward becoming active again.

An interesting experiment in social psychology investigates how much the judgments of others influence the way we see things. A psychologist built a small machine containing a bright light which could be switched on in pinpoint bursts. When one views a small burst of light in a dark room, the light appears to move, even though the machine producing the light is stable and doesn’t move at all. This is called the autokinetic (self-movement) effect, and it plays an important role in this experiment.
During the first stage of the experiment one person, let’s call him Bill, is led into a dark room and instructed to judge how far the tiny pinpoints of light move each time he sees a burst of light. His judgment is two centimeters the first time, three centimeters the second time, and four centimeters the third time. After several trials he settles on three centimeters as his average judgment.
Bill is then excused from the room, and Susan is invited to be seated several feet from the light machine. She then voices her judgments each time she sees a burst of light. She begins with three centimeters, then two centimeters, and she finally begins to repeat estimates of about one centimeter.
After her judgments have been recorded, Bill is then invited back into the room with Susan, and both of them are instructed to voice their individual estimates of another series of light bursts. After the first burst Bill says, “three centimeters,” and Susan counters with “one centimeter.” On the next trial Susan says, “one and a half,” and Bill replies, “two and a half.” After several subsequent trials, they concur that the light moves two centimeters each time.
The interesting conclusion to this experiment may appear, at first, to be trivial, but in many regards it is profound. The light never moves. It is only our perceptions of the light that change. As we associate with others whose opinions differ from our own, their judgments often influence how we view things, and we, in turn, influence their view of the world.

While traveling along a mountainous road one evening through a driving rainstorm punctuated with frequent claps of thunder and flashes of lightning, Sister Wirthlin and I could barely see the road, either in front of us or to the right and the left. I watched the white lines on that road more intently than ever before. Staying within the lines kept us from going onto the shoulder and into the deep canyon on one side and helped us avoid a head-on collision on the other. To wander over either line could have been very dangerous. Then I thought, “Would a right-thinking person deviate to the left or the right of a traffic lane if he knew the result would be fatal? If he valued his mortal life, certainly he would stay between these lines.”
That experience traveling on this mountain road is so like life. If we stay within the lines that God has marked, he will protect us, and we can arrive safely at our destination.

As I reflected on the message I wanted to share today, I was reminded of an experience my mother-in-law, Helen Thomas, had a few years ago. She noticed that her vision was deteriorating. The images she saw were becoming increasingly blurred and faint. Finally she scheduled an eye exam and was told she had cataracts. Fortunately she was able to have corrective surgery, which restored her vision. My mother-in-law was so excited after the operation, she said, “I hadn’t realized how much my eyesight had changed. I have not been able to see this well for years. My vision must have changed just a little bit at a time.”

“Jerome Mooney!” his mom scolded from the back porch. “Stop spitting at your sister!”
“It’s OK, Mom,” said Mary Beth as she put the last spoon on the picnic table. “Jerome is showing me how he’s going to win a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.”
“By spitting?”
“No,” Mary Beth explained with a grin, “by whistling. Jerome is entering the whistling competition. Talented, isn’t he? Last place is in the bag.”
“Oh, yeah, smartie?” Jerome retorted. “Just listen to this.”
But for all of Jerome’s effort, his whistle was no louder than a whisper.
“Jerome,” said Dad, handing him a hamburger, it takes a lot of practice to be able to win a blue ribbon, and the fair is only two weeks away.”
“That’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Practice in your room or when I’m not around,” she teased, “and I’ll call you when the two weeks are up.”
Jerome practiced and practiced. Every morning he played records and whistled along with them. Every afternoon he watched TV and whistled along with his favorite commercial jingles. And every time Grandpa called, Jerome whistled his best tunes into the telephone. Even while he got ready for bed, he whistled the songs he heard on his radio.
The more Jerome practiced, the better he became. By the end of the first week he was sure he could win first prize at the fair. Even Grandpa said he’d never heard anything like Jerome’s whistling. Just to be sure, though, Jerome chose “Yankee Doodle” as the tune he would whistle at the fair. He was positive that everyone loved it.
“A blue-ribbon tune if ever I heard one,” agreed Grandpa.
Mom made Jerome a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume out of a pair of Grandpa’s old pajamas. Dad gave Jerome a haircut and shined his Sunday shoes. “I don’t see how you can lose,” he said proudly.
“Jerome will find a way,” said Mary Beth.
But Jerome was determined to win. He had one more week to polish up his act. So, for six days straight, he whistled nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” Around and around through the house he marched, whistling the tune in time to the beat.
Mary Beth went around with cotton in her ears. Mom and Dad went to the store a lot, and everyone wished fair day would hurry and arrive.
On the night before the fair, Dad insisted that Jerome would do better if he didn’t whistle again until just before the competition. So Jerome put on his pajamas, kissed Mom and Dad goodnight, and went to bed early.
At breakfast Mary Beth rolled a penny across the table. “It’s for luck,” she said, “because you’re really going to need it. Just don’t forget to give it back to me after the contest.”
“I won’t need it,” said Jerome, but he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket—just in case.
Mom carefully packed Jerome’s costume into a bag. Then they all got into the van and headed for the fair.
At the fair they went to see all the exhibits of homegrown fruits and vegetables, handmade clothes and quilts, baked goods, and livestock. Jerome and Mary Beth pretended to drive some brand-new tractors while Mom and Dad set out their lunch of sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, ice-cold lemonade, and chocolate cake. After lunch they watched race cars roar around the track, and they munched on hot roasted peanuts.
At two o’clock the whistling competition was announced over the main loudspeaker. Jerome ran to the van to put on his costume. When he got to the grandstand, it was already filled with spectators. The contestants were divided into age groups, and each competitor was given a badge with his name and number on it. Jerome was number thirteen. Mom pinned the badge onto his costume and wished him luck.
After a short speech the emcee announced, “Number one, Abigail Potter, will whistle ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jerome listened as the whistlers performed. Some were very good, but Jerome knew that he had the winning tune and a wonderful costume and that he wouldn’t make a single mistake because he had practiced so hard.
When the emcee called, “Number twelve,” from a far corner of the tent a boy appeared in a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume! Jerome could not believe his eyes.
The emcee announced, “Theodore Buzby will now whistle ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Hey, you can’t do that!” yelled Mary Beth.
“Shhh,” chided someone in the audience.
Jerome felt his palms get clammy. Perspiration ran down his face. He couldn’t do “Yankee Doodle” now, and he didn’t have a second-best tune.
“You’re up next,” the emcee said to Jerome when Theodore Buzby finished his performance. “What’s the name of your song?”
“I want to go home,” whispered Jerome.
As Theodore Buzby bowed, the audience clapped and cheered. There goes my blue ribbon, thought Jerome.
“Number thirteen, Jerome Mooney,” the emcee informed the crowd, “will whistle ‘I Want to Go Home.’”
Jerome found himself at the podium staring at the faces staring back at him. His costume felt like it was glued to his skin. His throat ached, and he searched frantically in his pocket for Mary Beth’s lucky penny and rubbed it. But he needed more than luck.
The audience was still waiting for him to begin. He stared desperately at his family in the stands. Mom looked worried, but she managed a comforting smile. Dad looked nervous, but he held up his fingers in a victory sign. Mary Beth was making ugly faces at Theodore Buzby.
The tent grew hotter by the minute. Jerome’s throat was parched—too dry, maybe, to whistle anything. He spotted a grape Popsicle in the front row and watched as it dripped down the arm of the small girl holding it. One by one the cool drops plopped onto the dusty ground.
Suddenly, from somewhere, came a familiar little tune. Jerome couldn’t remember its name or where he had heard it, but it was sort of catchy. He took a deep breath and whistled softly into the microphone. He’d give it his best even if it wasn’t a blue-ribbon tune.
Soon Jerome noticed smiles throughout the audience. Everyone loved his tune! And more and more fairgoers were coming into the grandstand to listen. He whistled louder and faster. Children clapped their hands in time to the music. He whistled the mystery song better than he had ever whistled before, and when he had finished, the audience stood and applauded. Even Theodore Buzby.
The judges’ decision was unanimous. Jerome Mooney was the best seven-to-twelve-year-old whistler at the fair. The blue ribbon was his. Jerome gazed at it happily.
“I knew you could do it,” said Mary Beth, closing the van door. “Now can I have my penny back?”
“I’m proud of you, Jerome,” said Mom. “I didn’t know what you were going to do. What was that little song? I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“It certainly was popular with the crowd,” said Dad.
“Listen,” said Mary Beth, and in the distance Jerome’s blue-ribbon tune was playing softly. It got louder and louder as it came closer and closer. The catchy tune brought dozens of kids running to the curb as an ice-cream vendor turned the corner.
“Oh, no,” said Jerome. “I didn’t win at all. The ice-cream truck did.”
“You silly,” said Mary Beth. “The ice-cream truck wasn’t even at the fair. Besides, it was a blue-ribbon tune only because you were a blue-ribbon whistler. Now please hand over my penny.”
And Jerome did. Whistling happily, he could hardly wait to get home to call Grandpa.

When we would go out to eat before, I would usually order a sweet tea, but Kevin would say, “You don’t need a sweet tea; get something else.”
One day I went to a fast food restaurant for my lunch break and ordered a sweet tea. A few minutes later, an employee said, “At the very moment you ordered a sweet tea, the machine broke.”
She said it would take about an hour to fix the machine. I only had 30 minutes for lunch. I just ordered a soda instead. At that point I laughed and said, “All right, I get it now!”