Gospel Story Finder

Recently I saw a young teen-aged friend, Jami Palmer, whom I have known for several years. She is recovering from cancer. She has endured the diagnosis. She has undergone surgery and painful chemotherapy. Today she is a bright, beautiful young lady and looking to the future with confidence and with faith. I learned that in her darkest hour, when any future appeared somewhat grim, her leg where the cancer was situated would require multiple surgeries. A long-planned hike with her Young Women class up to Timpanogos Cave was out of the question—she thought. Jami told her friends they would have to undertake the hike without her. I’m confident there was a catch in her voice and disappointment in her heart. But then the other young women responded emphatically, “No, Jami, you are going with us!”

“But I can’t walk,” came the anguished reply.

“Then, Jami, we’ll carry you to the top!” And they did.

Today, the hike is a memory, but in reality it is much more. James Barrie, the Scottish poet, declared: “God gave us memories, that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.” None of those precious young women will ever forget that memorable day when, I am confident, a loving Heavenly Father looked down with a smile of approval and was well pleased.

“Want to get yourself a glass of milk, Frankie?” Granny Bebe asked, smiling across the table. Frankie jumped up. He found a glass and pressed it against the stainless steel lever under the milk cooler. Milk poured into his glass.
Granny Bebe owned the restaurant, and she let Frankie help himself to whatever he wanted. Mama and his sister, Mary, had left Frankie with Granny Bebe to spend a few hours while they went shopping. He loved everything about the restaurant, especially the pretty colored lamps and all the people hurrying about. Frankie didn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings, but as soon as he was big enough, he planned to come and live with Granny Bebe. This is where the action is, he thought as Granny Bebe introduced him to some customers.
Too soon Mama and Mary were back at the restaurant. Granny Bebe gave Frankie a big hug and told him to visit her again soon.
As they drove down the highway toward home, Frankie was already missing the restaurant. The only excitement in the part of the country where he lived was an airplane flying over now and then, headed for the airport ten miles away. Frankie loved airplanes almost as much as Granny Bebe’s restaurant.
The highway passed the airport and, as they neared it, Frankie saw cars parked all around the airstrip.
“Look, Mama!” Mary said. “This is the day that the planes are taking passengers for a ride.”
Mama turned the car off the road and pulled into a parking space. Sometimes Mama did unexpected things. “I’ve never been up in a plane,” she said. “Come on, kids, let’s go.”
Almost before Frankie knew what was happening, he was flying! Two pilots sat in the front seats, he and Mama sat behind them, and Mary and another passenger sat in the rear seats. The engines of the yellow plane made a thunderous noise. Frankie leaned as far forward as his seat belt permitted so that he could hear the pilots’ conversation.
“Where to, young fellow?” one of them asked him.
“Fly over Granny’s restaurant. You know—‘Bebe’s’!” Frankie had to shout to make himself heard.
“Roger,” said the pilot.
It took only a moment for the plane to circle toward Granny’s restaurant. The buildings in town looked like a model village, and the cars looked smaller than his pocket racers. The restaurant was in a crowded area, and Frankie had a hard time locating it among the other buildings. Finally he spotted the dome-shaped building with cars sticking out like little feet around it.
Mary tapped Mama on the shoulder. “Now ask him to fly over our house!”
Mama gave the pilot directions to their home in the foothills north of the highway.
As they flew along, Frankie pressed his nose against the small window of the plane, trying to identify places on the ground. He looked at the winding river and could see miles of it all at one time. He saw the tiny houses in their tiny yards and the cars crawling like ants along the highway. He leaned forward to listen to the pilots again.
“Look over there to your right,” the man flying the plane shouted. “See that house with the bright green roof on the side of the mountain? That house is my beacon. I always spot it before the airport.”
“Me, too,” said the copilot. “When I see that green roof, I know that I’m almost home.”
“Why,” Mama exclaimed, “that’s our house!”
Frankie could see that indeed it was their house that the pilots were talking about! The green roof shone like a jewel among the gray winter trees, and their very own yellow dirt road ran along the ridge next to the sloping fields of winter wheat. And the pond at the very edge of a cliff was the most beautiful of all. Frankie had helped Grandpa Townsend build it for a fish pond. He hadn’t realized before just how pretty it was.
“I wish everyone could see his home from the air,” Mama said. “Sometimes we are too close to things to properly appreciate them.”
“It sure looks different from up here!” Mary declared.
Now Frankie could see a silver-roofed house father down the little yellow road. An old truck was parked in front of it. “Look, Mary!” Frankie cried, pointing. “There’s Grandpa Townsend’s old orange pickup! I bet that he doesn’t know that we’re way up here!”
“No!” shouted Mary in agreement. “He’s probably waiting for you to help him feed the fish!”
Suddenly Frankie could hardly wait for the plane to land. He wanted to rush home and tell Grandpa Townsend about his flight and about how different the farm looked from the air.
Maybe I won’t move to Granny Bebe’s, after all, he thought. It’s pretty special living in a house that pilots use for a beacon. And pretty soon they’ll be talking about the boy on the yellow dirt road who waves to them when they fly over.

I decided that it was important to my growth to fast again soon, and not wait for a whole month. This time I fasted and prayed about a decision I was having difficulty making. The pros and cons of the major alternatives seemed nearly equal, and I had been puzzling about it for several weeks. After fasting and praying about it, I suddenly knew what to do, and there was never another moment of wondering if it was the best choice.

In August 2020, my wife, Jacqui, and I briefly returned from Africa to Salt Lake City, where I had the unexpected blessing of joining President Russell M. Nelson for lunch. I told him how intimidating it was for me to sit next to the prophet of the whole world.

With a gentle smile, he said, “Just eat your soup. You will get over it.”

At the time, the COVID-19 pandemic was causing real fear and suffering in the countries where we were serving, so I asked, “President Nelson, very soon I will be returning to our beloved brothers and sisters on the African continent. Is there a personal message you would want me to share?”

He paused thoughtfully and then gave this profound answer: “Tell them that some things are out of our control, so we should focus on those things that we can control—specifically on how we live our lives. We need to live our lives in such a way that we are always ready to meet our Maker.”

Emily peered through a rain-lashed cottage window at the storm raging outside. Gigantic waves were crashing right over the dunes that protected their little fishing resort from the Atlantic Ocean.
“Mama!” she cried, “Don’t you think we ought to get out of here? It’s a terrible storm!”
“Get away from that window,” her mother whispered from the couch. “If it breaks, you’ll be hurt by flying glass. I just can’t think what to do. My head hurts, and I feel so sick and cold. Pile another blanket on me, will you, dear?”
Emily did, then tried to think of what else she could do. The cottage was perched on a narrow strip of barrier beach separating Cape Cod from the ocean by about five miles of normally calm water. It could only be reached by a boat or by driving twenty miles from a coastal town. There was no electricity, telephones, or running water. This late fall weekend, Emily and her parents had driven out for one last visit to catch some sun and to close up the cottage for the winter. Emily’s dad had gone fishing in their boat before Emily or her mother were awake and wasn’t back yet. If he’d known how sick Mother is, Emily thought, he never would have gone.
Emily’s mom looked white and weak. “We’re the only ones on the beach today,” she said, her teeth chattering. “If we drove out, we’d be stranding your dad. Besides, if the storm is going to be severe, the coast guard will raise the storm flag. Look out the back window and see if it’s flying.”
Emily ran to the window that faced the mainland. She steadied the powerful binoculars on the window sash, focusing on the lighthouse and the Coast Guard station beside it. But the storm-warning flagpole wasn’t there. It must have been broken off by the wind, she thought.
As she stared through the binoculars, an enormous wave crashed upon the bank under the lighthouse. Great chunks of paving tore away and fell into the rolling sea.
“Mama!” she cried, terrified. “The flagpole is down, and the lighthouse banking is crumbling. The waves are awful!”
“Try the radio again,” her mother whispered.
Emily turned the dials of the battery radio again and again, trying to reach a station, but all she heard was static. The cottage smelled of damp wood, and it shook in the wind. The roar of the storm was unrelenting. She clutched Clover, her tiny white kitten, and tried not to cry. Her dad was out in this storm. What if his boat capsized?
Suddenly, as she stared out the window, Emily saw their car tossed into the air by a gigantic wave. “Mama, get up, get up,” she screamed. “The car is gone. We have to get out of here somehow!”
Her mother’s eyes were glazed now, and her lips were cracked. She tried to talk, then lay back and closed her eyes, instead.
Emily looked out the window again and could see nothing but water. The waves had beaten down most of the dunes and were reaching higher and higher. The roof of the house next door went floating past, tumbling end over end and finally breaking into pieces. “The Jenkins house is gone!”
But her mother was either asleep or unconscious. Emily began weeping with fear—great tearing sobs that shook her small frame and left her gasping for breath. “Heavenly Father, please help us!” she prayed.
Feeling a little more calm, she said aloud, “There must be something you can do. Think, Emily, think!”
As she looked around her for ideas, a thought slipped quietly into her mind. The old ship’s lantern! Maybe I could signal with it.
She ran into the tiny kitchen, pulled the stepladder over to the cupboard, and climbed up to get the big kerosene lantern that had once hung in a captain’s cabin on a clipper ship. Dad always kept it filled and trimmed for emergencies. It was sturdy and swung from a gimbal that kept it steady even in a high wind.
With trembling fingers she lit the lantern. Then she ran out to the back porch and looked for a place to hang it. The beam with the hook, the one that usually held her dad’s fishing boots, was too high for her to reach, so she raced back to the kitchen and dragged the stepladder out to the porch. Climbing up, holding the lantern carefully so that the kerosene in it wouldn’t spill, she hung it on the hook.
If anyone could see the light from across the raging waves, it would be the lookout in the Coast Guard station. But as Emily peered through the drenching sheets of rain, she thought, It’s not good enough. No one will know what the light means. I need something to make a signal with.
Searching the woodpile by the stove she found a small sheet of plywood. Frantic with haste, she scrambled up the ladder again and started passing the plywood back and forth across the glow of the lantern, creating three short, three long, three short intervals of light—SOS—over and over again. She tried to count out loud to keep it regular. The rain whipped her long brown hair around, sometimes stinging her eyes. Three short, three long, three short—would anyone notice? Could anyone even see such a tiny light across the miles of turbulence?
Soaked to the skin, shivering, and miserable, she kept on. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Her legs ached from trying to keep her balance in the howling wind.
Suddenly she heard a shrieking and rending above the constant roar of the storm and almost lost her balance. A whole house came sweeping by the porch, breaking up in front of her eyes. A refrigerator was flung into the air and landed almost at her feet. A propane gas tank went sailing by like a kite. The waves were now as high as the ground the cottage was on and pounding higher each minute. She could feel its timbers shaking. Numb with fear, she felt like a mechanical doll. Don’t think. Just keep moving the plywood.
Listen—what’s that? Over the roar of the wind, she heard the thrum of a powerful engine. Then she saw a searchlight coming closer, sometimes hidden by the surf, then reappearing. The Coast Guard must have seen her signal.
“Over here!” she called but knew that they couldn’t hear her. She didn’t dare stop signalling. What if the house blew down before they arrived? On and on she worked. Three short, three long, three short.
Then, miraculously, the boat was there. Voices shouted through the howling wind. Strong arms lifted her from the ladder and set her in the bow of the boat. “Check the house,” she heard someone cry.
“Clover, Clover,” Emily screamed when a wet ball of white fur was thrust into her arms. Soon her mother was carried out and placed in the bow under a canvas shelter. Engines roaring, the boat backed away from the cottage.
“You were great to signal like that,” one man shouted to Emily over the wind, wrestling the boat around to face the mainland. “We didn’t know anyone was out here. You’d better get under cover. We’re not out of this mess yet.”
Emily curled up close to her mother, whose eyes had fluttered open for only a moment while she was being rescued. Clover was buried under Emily’s arm, shivering and still frightened. Emily prayed for the man steering the boat—and for her father out somewhere in the storm.
Mountainous waves rose all around them. The boat reared and bucked and plunged. Emily glimpsed debris sweeping by—a chair, a green cooler, a door.
“There goes your house,” one of the men called. “There’s nothing left now but ocean—not even sand. We got you off just in time.”
“We’re almost there,” the pilot shouted many minutes later.
Emily peered over the canvas and saw a sight that she would never forget. Most of the boats anchored in the harbor were thrown up on shore, smashed and broken by the storm. The pier had been swept away, and the fish house was dangling over the water, swaying crazily in the wind, half its foundation gone.
Emily later remembered little of landing, thanking her rescuers, or riding to the hospital in a wailing ambulance. Sometime later, Uncle George gently shook her. “Wake up,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked sleepily. “Where’s Clover? Has Dad come back?”
“Your kitten’s in the car. Your mother’s in intensive care, and the doctor says that she’ll be fine. Your dad …” He shrugged and looked away. “He’s a good seaman. He’ll be OK.”
For five days and nights the storm raged. Emily’s mother finally came to stay with her at Uncle George’s, shaken and weak but a lot better.
On the fifth day, Emily’s father chugged into the harbor. He was starving, cold, and exhausted; his boat was badly damaged. He had thrown out sea anchors, he explained, and had miraculously ridden out the storm.
“You were so brave!” he told Emily, hugging her. “To think of signaling like that and staying with it so long! You must have been frightened.”
“I was,” she said, stroking Clover, “but I prayed.”
He held her close. “So did I.”

Let me end with an experience I hold dear. Last Christmas vacation my wife and I were privileged to spend three weeks in Israel. The first and last weeks were in Jerusalem, a city sacred to three faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In the Old City of Jerusalem is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This is a building not owned by any one Christian group, but is an interesting conglomeration of various rooms and chapels and shrines belonging to different denominations. It is built over the area where many Christians (Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox and other Christian churches) believe Christ was crucified, buried, and where he was resurrected. It is a different place than the Garden tomb where many Protestants believe Christ was buried and resurrected.

My wife has done much study about this Church and I’ve picked up a bit of knowledge hearing her talk and reading what she’s written about it—how it was founded, how millions of Christian pilgrims from around the world had traveled there to worship in the place where Jesus was buried and resurrected, how a particular group—the Franciscans, an order of clerics in the Roman Catholic tradition—had developed a way to teach people about what Jesus Christ has done and importance of his death and burial and resurrection. The place has an interest for Jennifer and I, not because we believe one way or another that this is the exact spot Jesus was resurrected (history has made that impossible to determine with certainty), but because of what the place and the attendant message of the suffering, death, and resurrection of Christ has meant and still means to the millions of Christians who have come here for nearly two millennia.

One afternoon, slowly turning to evening, we were in this Church when the Franciscan brothers were starting to lead a small procession of people through various places in the Church, following from place to place as they commemorated the death and resurrection of Jesus. Where appropriate, and where I could be unobtrusive, I took pictures from a distance and with no flash. The procession through the building lasted a little under an hour or so. It paused for some time at the place where Jesus was crucified and lead eventually to the place where Jesus was believed to be buried, and also, therefore, the place where he was resurrected. The group then moved a little to the side in a section with an altar and benches. As they neared the culmination of their procession that afternoon, they were joined by a nun (probably in her late twenties or early thirties) who had just arrived at the Church. We immediately recognized, because of the habit or dress she was wearing, that she was of the same order of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. She appeared to be from India and this may have been her first visit in the Church. Part of the ceremony required that those following kneel. She was on the outer edge of the group—not fully in the room where they were because of the size of the group, but facing where they were. She knelt on the solid stone floor and was in that position for an extended period. After a time we noticed that tears were streaming down her face. There she was, a very short walk from where Jesus was believed to be crucified and literally just a few yards away from the place where Jesus was believed to be buried and to have resurrected. Her face reflected such humility and joy and gratitude. Jennifer and I were moved as well. I thought for only a moment to take a picture so that I could remember this happening and later use it in my classes to educate others as well, but I realized this would be imposing on a moment too personal a too sacred. We stood to the side and watched in reverence. It was a truly sublime experience. As we were leaving the building a bit later and discussing the wonder that we had seen, Jennifer exclaimed “How do you show gratitude for the Atonement of Christ?”

How, indeed. That question is one we all must ask ourselves. How do we show gratitude for all He is and all He has done for us? For my part, I hope my life is such that someday my countenance can reflect the kind of humility and radiant gratitude I saw on the face of that sister kneeling on the stone floor of the Church in Jerusalem.

“Hi. You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked Carl.
“Yup,” Tony answered.
“Where did you go to school before?”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln Elementary? Across town?”
“Nope. Lincoln, Nebraska,” replied Tony.
“Oh. I was in Nebraska once, but I was just a kid, so I don’t remember much about it. You like it here?”
“It’s all right.”
“What did you do at recess in Lincoln?” Carl asked.
“Well … we played marbles.”
“Marbles! Terrific! Are you any good?” probed Carl.
“OK, I guess,” Tony answered modestly. “Do you play?”
“Not much. Mostly I play kickball. You’ll have to meet Marvin.”
“Marvin?”
“Marvin the Marble Marvel,” Carl explained.
“Is he any good?”
“Is he any good! That’s like asking if ice is cold. That’s him, over there,” said Carl, pointing across the playground.
“What grade’s he in, first?”
“No, third—like us.”
“He sure doesn’t look like a third grader. He’s so little,” Tony declared.
“I know,” agreed Carl. “But that doesn’t stop him. He’s the best marble player in the whole school. I can’t remember anyone ever beating him. Want to meet him?”
“Yup.”
Carl and Tony walked over to Marvin, and Carl introduced him to Tony.
“Hi!” Marvin said, grinning and pushing up his glasses. “Want to play?”
“I didn’t bring my marbles,” Tony answered.
“That’s OK,” Carl said generously, handing Tony a marble. “I’ll lend you Orangy.”
“Let’s play lag-outs,” Marvin suggested.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no snudging.”
“What’s snudging?”
“That means that your knuckles stay on the ground when you shoot,” explained Tony.
“Oh,” said Marvin. “It doesn’t matter. I shoot flingies.”
“Flingies?” asked Tony.
“Sure. Like this,” said Marvin, snapping the marble forward with his thumb and index finger.
“Oh, snappers,” Tony replied.
“Whatever,” Marvin said, “Hurry—the bell’s about to ring. We’ll play funsies. You shoot first.”
“OK. Thanks.” Tony shot his marble.
“We play no hits on first tries,” explained Marvin, rolling a green marble in the opposite direction. “Your turn.”
Tony aimed his marble carefully. An audible click was heard as Orangy collided with Marvin’s marble.
“Wow!” exclaimed Carl. “What a shot!”
“Good hit,” complimented Marvin, handing Tony his marble.
“You said funsies,” reminded Tony, giving both marbles back to their owners. “I’ll bring my marbles tomorrow.”
By the next morning the whole school knew about Tony’s fantastic shot. Carl met Tony on the way out to recess. “Did you bring your marbles?” he questioned.
“Yup.” Tony held up a bulging brown leather bag.
“Good. That looks like enough. Sometimes Marvin likes to play undergrounds.”
“Undergrounds? You mean pots?” asked Tony.
“I guess, Don’t let Marvin fool you,” warned Carl.
“How?”
“Well, he doesn’t look or act like a marble champ.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“He brings the same marble to school every day,” confided Carl.
“Only one?”
“That’s right,” Carl replied. “He brings it in a sandwich bag, and every afternoon he goes home with a bagful of marbles that he’s won.”
“You’re joking,” Tony challenged.
“No. Honest. I’ve always wondered what he does with the marbles he wins.”
“He must have a closetful at home,” Tony said as they approached Marvin and a couple of his friends.
“Hi. Ready to play?” asked Marvin, pulling a sandwich bag containing just one marble out of his pocket.
Carl gave Tony an “I told you so” nudge as some of the other kids came over to watch the game.
“Same rules as yesterday,” Marvin announced.
“OK,” Tony agreed, “but no go-fors.”
“Gophers?” Marvin repeated.
“Go-fors.”
“What does that mean?”
“No one else can shoot for you,” Tony explained.
“Oh—no helpers. OK. Come on, Sunshine,” Marvin pleaded, rolling his shiny yellow cat’s-eye marble between his thumb and forefinger.
Tony wisely shot his blue marble some distance away from Marvin. But when Marvin shot his marble, it stopped just short of Tony’s. On the next shot Tony easily won the cat’s-eye.
“Good game,” said Tony as Marvin handed him Sunshine. “You’ll have to bring more marbles tomorrow.”
“I don’t have any more marbles,” replied Marvin quietly.
“What?” Carl protested. “How can that be? You’ve won hundreds.”
“Well … I …” Marvin hesitated.
“He always gives them back the next day,” Jenny, an on-looker, broke in. “I’m sorry, Marvin. I had to tell.”
“That’s OK,” Marvin mumbled, staring at the ground.
“You mean that you’ve been winning the same marbles over and over again?” Carl asked incredulously.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Marvin. “You see, I found Sunshine on my way home from school one day, and I’ve just always won. I give the marbles back so that everyone will keep playing with me.”
“You’re good, Marvin,” Tony said, handing Sunshine back to him.
“You won it,” Marvin insisted. “You can keep it.”
“We said we’d play the same rules as yesterday,” Tony reminded him. “We were playing funsies yesterday, remember?”
“That’s right!” Marvin replied, happily tucking Sunshine into his pocket.

After an operation, a young man was wheeling Spencer W. Kimball back to his hospital room. The strong medicine used during the operation had left the prophet barely conscious.
The young man got angry at something. He swore, using the Lord’s name.
Spencer W. Kimball struggled to speak. “Please … don’t say that. I love Him … more than anything in this world. Please.”
At first, the young man was silent. Then he apologized.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

A woman I know was married about fifty years ago in the temple. After she and her husband had had several children, his turbulent life led both to their divorce and to his excommunication from the Church. Then she gave up her own Church membership and chose some thorny paths. Later on he passed away. I met her when her forty-five-year-old daughter brought her to my office in the temple to explore if the mother could ever return to the ­temple—something the mother was convinced could never happen. After a mellow, peaceful conversation about learning from experience without being condemned by it, we discussed the processes of repentance, rebaptism, and the restoration of temple blessings. Then I said that the restoration ordinance would also restore her temple sealing. Was she ready for that?

After a pause, the daughter spoke first. She said, “I have bipolar disorder. My son is ­bipolar. We know far more about that disorder than we used to, and we take medications that help. Looking back, I believe my father was bipolar, and that probably influenced many of the hard things in our family’s life. I don’t judge him now.”

Soon her mother said softly, “If I really can return to the temple someday, I will be ready for my sealing to be restored.”

As I watched them walk down the hall, I realized that the temple and Elijah’s sealing power are sources of reconciliation, turning not only the hearts of children to their fathers and mothers but turning the hearts of wives and husbands toward one another. I later received a message telling me that the mother was being rebaptized.

I am fortunate to have had good women in my life: a nurturing and courageous mother, wise and faithful sisters, and a loving and supportive wife. I wish to honor one of these influential women, my older sister, Thelma, for her impact in my life through her continuous good example.
When I was young, my father taught me to follow Thelma’s lead when he and my mom were not around, and I am eternally grateful for this counsel.
Three of my eight siblings joined the Church in El Salvador the same time I did. Thelma was 14 years old and my oldest sibling when we got baptized. I was 8 years old at the time and the youngest of the family, so she was our leader.
We were introduced to the Church by our neighbor who sang songs that we later learned were hymns. Our neighbor told us about a wonderful place called Primary, where children learned to sing. The missionaries were contacted, and they started visiting our home to teach us.
However, my dad had strong feelings against the Church and about his children being taught by the missionaries. Being a small boy, I never understood what those two elders went through to bring the gospel into our lives. Dad would kick them out if he found them at our home, and he would deliberately turn off the lights if the elders stopped by in the evening. Just as my dad was relentless in trying to stop the missionaries from teaching, Thelma was twice as determined to learn about the gospel and read the Book of Mormon. Thelma and the elders never gave up, and for this I am thankful.
Going to church was a struggle because Dad tried to stop us by using a variety of tactics, such as requiring that we do chores before we could leave for church.
One Sunday morning was particularly hard. He did not want to let us go, but we refused to be stopped. He kicked a garbage can and spilled its contents all over the floor we had just cleaned. Thelma quietly began picking up the garbage without complaining. After she had cleaned the floor again, she asked if we could go to church. We had finished all the chores and more, but he still did not want to give his permission. Finally he asked pointedly, “Why do you insist on going to this church anyway?” Thelma then bore a powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and of the message of the Restoration of the gospel. As she concluded, my dad waved his hand and gave his permission.
Dad never tried to stop us again after this incident and eventually, even though he did not like it, gave his consent for us to join the Church.
I had no problem attending church on Sunday, but I was not as enthusiastic about attending Primary because it was on Saturday morning at that time. When I was 10, Thelma came home one Saturday and told my other siblings about a great soccer game between the deacons and the Blazers (11-year-old Scouts). She pointed out how unfortunate it was that I had missed the game because I had not attended Primary. Needless to say, I went the following Saturday (with my soccer cleats on) and never missed it again.
When Thelma was 16, she was called to be the Primary president. Our bishop had been trying to find someone to handle the many challenges the Primary organization was facing. The ward covered a large area, and it was difficult and expensive for many families with small children to travel by bus to the church both on Saturdays for Primary and on Sundays. Many of those children were not attending Primary, and no solution had been found. The bishop had been prompted to call Thelma but could not bring himself to do it because she was so young. The prompting continued, and after receiving approval from the stake president, the bishop extended the call to my sister.
This proved to be an inspired decision, and it blessed many children—including me. Thelma magnified her calling by following inspiration, using common sense, and implementing innovative ideas to develop training programs to bring the gospel to the children. She asked her counselors and teachers to hold Primary meetings at several places closer to their homes, and she provided ongoing training for those teachers. This solution allowed members to save time and money and enabled children who were previously not attending Primary to receive the blessings of this wonderful organization.
My siblings and I continued to follow Thelma’s lead as time progressed. We held family home evenings and attended all of our Church meetings. Shortly after I was ordained a deacon, Thelma turned to me during one family home evening and recognized me as the priesthood holder in the family. This event taught me a valuable lesson about respect for the priesthood.
She also made sure I never lacked the proper encouragement and extra incentive to attend my priesthood meetings or to fulfill my responsibilities. For instance, Thelma used every noisy and energetic way to get me out of bed on Sunday mornings so I could attend priesthood meeting. She also taught me to look forward to my advancements in the Aaronic Priesthood.
At Mutual and seminary I didn’t mind that I was always known as “Thelma’s brother.” Some of my friends had the support of their parents in the Church, but I had my bishop, Young Men leaders, and Thelma.
Thelma continued to be an example to me as she held a variety of callings until she left for her mission. She served honorably in the Guatemala Quetzaltenango Mission, and the fruits of her labors included the baptism of our mother two days after Thelma returned home. Our joy was full as I, then a priest, performed this sacred ordinance. Following Thelma’s example, I began to earnestly prepare to serve a mission.

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our Saints. They had placed his body out in front of the big house, as they call it—the house where the people come to wail and weep and mourn over the dead—when in rushed the dead man’s brother.

He said, “Administer to him.”

The young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that; he’s dead.”

“You do it!”

This same old man that I had had with me when his niece was ill was there. The younger native got down on his knees and anointed the dead man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to arise. You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter.

He sat up and said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.”

Of course, all of that was just psychological effect on that dead man. Wonderful, isn’t it—this psychological effect business?

We told him he had just been administered to, and he said, “Oh, that was it.”

He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.”

He outlived the brother who had come in and told us to administer to him.

Our baptisms are supposed to be in two weeks. Dad—oops! I mean Bishop May—is going to interview me on Sunday. Brenda says that she wants to wait until she’s older. I think that maybe I want to wait too. Maybe I’ll wait until you come home. Maybe I’ll wait till I’m old like Mr. Rockwell. That way, if I make some mistakes between now and then, my baptism will wash away all my sins from my whole life.
Love,Buddy

Dear Buddy,
Getting baptized is a wonderful event. Of course I would like to be there for your baptism, but I certainly don’t want you to wait just for me. It’s too important! And there’s no advantage in waiting until you’re old before you’re baptized. In fact, Mr. Rockwell wishes that he could have found the Church when he was much younger so that he could have been baptized then.
You see, waiting until the end of your life to be baptized would be like waiting until the end of a baseball game before putting on your catcher’s equipment. Baptism makes us clean of all our sins, the ones both before and after we’re baptized, if we truly repent of them. Your baptism now will be a blessing to you throughout your life. And every time you take the sacrament, it’ll be like renewing your baptism.
And two other great things happen when you get baptized. One is that you’ll become a confirmed member of the Lord’s Church. The other is that you’ll be given the gift of the Holy Ghost to help you have a fuller, happier life.
A good way to learn how to use that gift is to bear your testimony. Elder Butler and I bear our testimonies to everyone we can. It gives us a wonderful, peaceful feeling.
I’m proud of you, and I’ll be thinking of you on your baptism day.
Love,Reed

I read your letter to Brenda. We had a good talk, and she told me a secret. She’s afraid of the water because she can’t swim. She said that some people have to be put underwater two or three times.
Dad showed me how to make sure to go underwater completely so that it only has to be done once. It’s fast and easy! I showed Brenda how, and we practiced it. Now Brenda has decided that she’s going to be baptized the same day that I am.

What you do when you want to sponsor a Heritage Festival of the Arts in your area is have an Al Klann, a student working toward his degree in architecture, as a member of your institute of religion. This is how Arizona State students at Tempe turned their institute into a gallery. Al and a crew of volunteers cut 400 uprights, drilled 3200 holes, stained boards, planted planters, and then helped the contributors hang their artwork. The preparing was an all-night affair, but the success of the event was well worth it.
Contributing artists were enthusiastic about the crowd, the facility, and the spirit of the event. “It’s the most ambitious undertaking of its kind ever held outside of the center of the Church. Very rewarding,” said sculptor Dennis Smith.
James Christensen expressed surprise at finding such a “professionally organized and constructed gallery setting.” Gary Smith said, “I felt a warm spirit and intention here.” Dr. Clinton Larson, who read poetry in a special writers’ seminar, felt that this and similar shows could serve to “convert people to the gospel by translating spirituality into art.”
The committee agreed that, as D. H. Lawrence once wrote, new experience is the most painful of human activities; yet it is the most worthwhile because it insists on growth. “We grew,” said one member of the committee, “and we feel sure the festival will too.” No reason why not. It was quite popular with Latter-day Saints in the community—as well as many non-Mormons who are interested in the arts.—Deborah Egerer.

It was July 4, 1976, and the huge, yellowed stones of the Western (Wailing) Wall, all that remains of the enclosure that was once part of the resplendent glory of Solomon’s Temple, echoed with singing: “God is with us; no one can defeat us.” The golden city of Jerusalem, made more golden by the ruddy glow of the setting sun, sang her victory song. Israel had amazed the world that morning with her daring commando raid on the airport at Entebbe, Uganda. Ninety hijacked Israeli hostages, facing the threat of death, had been rescued and flown back to Israel.
On the evening of that eventful day, I photographed soldiers and civilians whirling together in dancing circles, singing and praising God. The dusky evening light merged colors and shapes into a oneness. I stood next to a soldier as he leaned his head against his arm to pray at the rough stone of the Wall, while behind us common folk and government officials blended their voices in vocal prayer and thanksgiving for the glory of Israel.

A professor here at BYU shared the following when I asked him whether or not he had experienced anyone cheating on exams or assignments. He said:

I tried letting the students take the exam online—closed notes and closed book. I discovered that a couple of students had the clever idea of all being in the same room at the same time while one student took the exam. That enabled them to all help him to do well, and it allowed all of them to see the questions and answers before they took the exam. I only found out about it . . . because one of the women who participated had been . . . consumed by her guilt, so she came in and confessed and told me how they had all cheated.

This professor went on to share his perspective on students who cheat:

One of the challenges I’ve seen with all of this is not that these are bad kids. But they do rob themselves of the opportunity that school was designed to be. . . . If you plow through school just trying to figure out how to get the best grade and the highest GPA, you limit the actual learning that takes place.

This professor told me that because the woman was honest, she did not fail the exam or the class but did incur some penalties. Others who cheated and did not come forth failed the class.

Emma Whitney’s life was completely different to what it became as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Twenty years old, living in Scunthorpe, England, Emma describes her life before discovering the Church as full of drink, drugs, partying, toxic friends, no respect for herself, little education, and challenges to her mental health.
Learning and understanding God’s words has always been a desire for Emma. One life-changing experience brought Emma to her knees; pouring her heart out in prayer led to an answer a few weeks later, by accepting a request to participate in a Bible study class with full-time Church missionaries. Understanding the words of the Bible has been a struggle for Emma; on the other hand, she says, “Even though the words are old English words, I understand the Book of Mormon clearly.”
Scripture study and prayer are factors that enable Emma to stay strong and to say no to situations that she deems would be bad for her. Inspiration which led Emma to change her ways and join the Church, was understanding that she could turn over a new leaf and all would be forgiven. Therefore, after five weeks of investigating the Church, Emma was baptised on the fifth of May 2021.
In 2022, clean from drugs and alcohol, surrounded by good friends, a good relationship, good family relationships, and studying the subject of communications using the online BYU-Pathway programme, Emma says she is genuinely happy and strengthened. Dealing with her past has been easier for her as she talks about the importance of looking after her body, “I was just abusing my body in every way you could think of. I’ve come to realise that to take pride in our bodies is a gift from God.”
Follow Emma’s journey at lds.scripturestudy on Instagram.

I remember, too, my mother as she went through eight years of being paralyzed. The last year and a half she needed care around the clock, and my dear father cared for her. One night, a few weeks before she passed away, I knelt at her bed after a word of prayer and she said, “I would like to go to heaven to see Papa.”

I said, “Mother, why have you gone through this pain?”

She said, “To learn patience.”

“Mother, have you learned enough patience?”

Then, with a mother’s kind way of teaching, she looked at me and said, “I have, but have you?”

At such moments we begin to understand that the difficulties and problems of others, if we will feel them, will make us grow, if we will but lend a hand.

One October day our daughter Júlia, who is often restless during family home evening, said, “We have never had a family home evening in the dark. Can we, please?” We wondered how and what we could teach her in the dark.
We turned off the lights, and complete darkness enveloped us. Then my husband opened his cell phone and began teaching about the Light of Christ. He demonstrated how the Light of Christ can bring us out of the darkness and lead us as a family back to Him. The light from the phone was not very bright, but it was enough to enable us to see.
As the phone periodically turned off the light automatically, we were able to show our daughter what our lives would be like without the Savior, Jesus Christ. The Spirit was very strong, and our daughter became completely reverent. Even now she remembers our favorite family home evening and the message that was taught.
Valquíria Lima dos Santos, Brazil

Chioma N., age 15, of Nigeria, studied John 7 and 3 Nephi 14 as part of a desire to be more obedient. She admits that it’s difficult to “do some things I hate doing—especially tidying up the kitchen when I am tired.” But she also has a desire to “love people around her,” and obedience, she found, was one way to show that love (see John 14:15).
As Chioma studied the Savior’s teachings about obedience and read about His submission to Heavenly Father’s will, she recognized that because Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ knew that we would sin and go astray, They gave us commandments to help us stay on the strait and narrow path. She also learned that without obedience, we cannot enter into the kingdom of God.
“I learned that nobody is perfect, but with obedience, we can all strive toward perfection,” she said. “And I have learned that we should be obedient so that Heavenly Father can bless us.”
She found an opportunity to exhibit obedience at school when she was asked to sweep the classroom when it wasn’t her turn.
“I humbly obeyed as I listened to the Holy Ghost telling me to obey and sweep the classroom. My fellow students were surprised, and our teacher also. Because of this incident, people now know me as an obedient and humble girl. I felt happy throughout the week because I was obedient.”

Looks good! Are you ready for your book report tomorrow?
I don’t know. I get nervous when I have to talk in front of people.
You’ll do great! You’ve prepared and worked hard. Let’s pray to help you feel calm.
The next day …
Great work, Paolo! I made your favorite treat.
But I did terrible! I dropped my poster and messed up all my words.
You did your best. That’s something to celebrate. Come tell us what you learned!
Great job! We’re so proud of you.
Now I want to read that book too!
Illustrations by Katie McDee