Gospel Story Finder

In a video series on mormonchannel.org, a young man named Bubba shares his story about how his life was headed for disaster.1 He had grown up in a violent home, where his father was murdered when Bubba was only three years old.
Bubba grew up choosing the same life he’d always seen. He joined a gang and started fights with anybody who crossed him. By high school he figured he would end up in prison before long. And he didn’t care.
God intervened. At this dangerous crossroads in his life, Bubba met a Latter-day Saint family who showed him loving kindness and goodness. He’d never been around people like this before—people who showed compassion and love. He started spending as much time with them as possible. When he asked the family why they acted the way they did, they said it was because of their faith in Jesus Christ.
He wanted to find out what they knew. He began praying and studying the scriptures. And soon he felt something he’d never felt before. “Surely there is a God, and He loves me!” Bubba says. With God’s help, Bubba began to build his life over again with Jesus Christ as the foundation, leaving his old life behind.
“My nature changed. Who I am as a human being is different than who I was. Now I have a purpose. I have a destiny,” he says. “I have somewhere that I’m going.”
These days Bubba sees his future with brightness, faith, and hope. “I know that it is only through Jesus Christ, my faith in Him, that will help me get to where I want to get to,” he says.2

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow the counsel. It was in a second-grade elementary classroom. The student teacher held the children captive with her story-telling skills. In great detail, she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown, who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to have Mr. Brown for a neighbor?” Every hand in the room was raised. Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked the question, “And is there anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor?”

A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, bringing a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and dare to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation of his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor because if he was my neighbor, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh . . . I wish I’d said that.”

We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one—just one—had a spirit within, the discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

I am indebted to a good friend of mine, Aldin Porter, for a story and I would like to share it with you. He shared it with me about two years ago. “No one in our Utah town knew where the Countess had come from; her carefully precise English indicated that she was not a native American. From the size of her house and staff we knew that she must be wealthy, but she never entertained and she made it clear that when she was at home she was completely inaccessible. Only when she stepped outdoors did she become at all a public figure—and then chiefly to the small fry of the town, who lived in awe of her. “The countess always carried a cane, not only for support, but as a means of chastising any youngster she thought needed disciplining. And at one time or another most of the kids in our neighborhood seemed to display that need. By running fast and staying alert, I had managed to keep out of her reach. But one day when I was about thirteen, as I was short-cutting through her hedge, she got close enough to rap my head with her stick. “‘Ouch!’ I yelled, jumping a couple of feet. “‘Young man, I want to talk to you,’ she said. I was expecting a lecture on the evils of trespassing, but as she looked at me, half smiling, she seemed to change her mind. “‘Don’t you live in that green house with the willow trees in the next block?’ “‘Yes, ma’am.’ … “‘Good. I’ve lost my gardener. Be at my house Thursday morning at seven, and don’t tell me you have something else to do; I’ve seen you slouching around on Thursdays.’ “When the Countess gave an order, it was carried out. I didn’t dare not come on that next Thursday. I went over the whole lawn three times with a mower before she was satisfied, and then she had me down on all fours looking for weeds until my knees were as green as the grass. She finally called me up to the porch. “‘Well, young man, how much do you want for your day’s work?’ “‘I don’t know. Fifty cents, maybe.’ “‘Is that what you figure you’re worth?” “‘Yes’m. About that.’ “‘Very well. Here’s the fifty cents you say you’re worth, and here’s the dollar and a half more that I’ve earned for you by pushing you. Now I’m going to tell you something about how you and I are going to work together. There are as many ways of mowing a lawn as there are people, and they may be worth anywhere from a penny to five dollars. Let’s say that a three-dollar job would be just what you have done today, except that you’d have to be something of a fool to spend that much time on a lawn. A five-dollar lawn is—well, it’s impossible, so we’ll forget about that. Now then, each week I’m going to pay you according to your own evaluation of your work.’ “I left with my two dollars, richer than I remembered being in my whole life, and determined that I would get four dollars out of her the next week. But I failed to reach even the three dollar mark. My will began to falter the second time around her yard. “‘Two dollars again, eh? That kind of job puts you right on the edge of being dismissed, young man.’ “‘Yes’m. But I’ll do better next week.’ “And somehow I did. The last time around the lawn I was exhausted, but I found I could spur myself on. In the exhilaration of that new feeling, I had no hesitation in asking the Countess for three dollars. “Each Thursday for the next four or five weeks, I varied between a three- and a three-and-a-half dollar job. The more I became more acquainted with her lawn, places where the ground was a little high or a little low, places where it needed to be clipped short or left long on the edges to make a more satisfying curve along the garden, the more I became aware of just what a four-dollar lawn would consist of. And each week I would resolve to do just that kind of a job. But by the time I had made my three dollar or three and-a-half dollar mark I was too tired to remember even having had the ambition to go beyond that. “‘You look like a good consistent $3.50 man,’ she would say as she handed me the money. “‘I guess so’ I would say, too happy at the sight of the money to remember that I had shot for something higher. “‘Well, don’t feel too bad,’ she would comfort me. ‘After all, there are only a handful of people in the world who could do a four-dollar job.’ “And her words were a comfort at first, but then, without my noticing what was happening, her comfort became an irritant that made me resolve to do that four-dollar job, even if it killed me. In the fever of my resolve, I could see myself expiring on her lawn, with the Countess leaning over me, handing me the four dollars with a tear in her eye, begging my forgiveness for having thought I couldn’t do it. “It was in the middle of such a fever, one Thursday night when I was trying to forget the day’s defeat and get some sleep, that the truth hit me so hard that I sat upright, half choking in my excitement. It was the five-dollar job I had to do, not the four-dollar one! I had to do the job that no one could do because it was impossible. “I was well acquainted with the difficulties ahead. I had the problem, for example, of doing something about the worm mounds in the lawn. The Countess might not even have noticed them yet, they were so small; but in my bare feet I knew about them and I had to do something about them. And I could go on trimming the garden edges with shears, but I knew that a five-dollar lawn demanded that I line up each edge exactly with a yard stick and then trim it precisely with the edger. And there were other problems that only I and my bare feet knew about. “I started the next Thursday by ironing out the worm mounds with a heavy roller. After two hours of that I was ready to give up for the day. Nine o’clock in the morning, and my will was already gone! It was only by accident that I discovered how to regain it. Sitting under a walnut tree for a few minutes after finishing the rolling, I fell asleep. When I woke up minutes later, the lawn looked so good and felt so good under my feet, I was anxious to get on with the job. “I followed this secret for the rest of the day, dozing for a few minutes every hour to regain my perspective and replenish my strength. Between naps, I mowed four times, two times lengthwise, two times across, until the lawn looked like a green velvet checkerboard. Then I dug around every tree, crumbling the big clods and smoothing the soil with my hands, then finished with the edger, meticulously lining up each stroke so that the effect would be perfectly symmetrical. And I carefully trimmed the grass between the flagstones of the front walk. The shears wore my fingers raw, but the walk never looked better. “Finally about eight o’clock that evening … it was all completed. I was so proud I didn’t even feel tired when I went up to her door. “‘Well, what is it today?’ she asked. “‘Five dollars,’ I said, trying for a little calm and sophistication. “‘Five dollars? You mean four dollars, don’t you? I told you that a five-dollar lawn job isn’t possible.’ “‘Yes it is. I just did it.’ “‘Well, young man, the first five-dollar lawn in history certainly deserves some looking around.’ “We walked about the lawn together in the light of evening, and even I was quite overcome by the impossibility of what I had done. “‘Young man,’ she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, ‘what on earth made you do such a crazy, wonderful thing?’ “I didn’t know why, but even if I had, I could not have explained it in the excitement of hearing that I had done it. “‘I think I know,’ she continued, ‘how you felt when this idea first came to you of caring for a lawn that I told you was impossible. It made you very happy when it first came, then a little frightened. Am I right?’ “She could see she was right by the startled look on my face. “‘I know how you felt, because the same thing happens to almost everyone. They feel this sudden burst in them of wanting to do some great thing. They feel a wonderful happiness, but then it passes because they have said, “No, I can’t do that. It’s impossible.” Whenever something in you says, “It’s impossible,” remember to take a careful look and see if it isn’t really God asking you to grow an inch, or a foot, or a mile, that you may come to a fuller life.’ … “Since that time, some 25 years ago, when I have felt myself at an end with nothing before me, suddenly, with the appearance of that word, ‘impossible,’ I have experienced the unexpected lift, the leap inside me, and known that the only possible way lay through the very middle of impossible.” (Richard Thurman, “The Countess and the Impossible,” Reader’s Digest, June 1958.)

The Young Men, Young Women, and youth leaders of the Rigby Second Ward, Rigby East Idaho Stake, managed to read the entire Book of Mormon in 45 minutes during an activity night!
Well, they did divide it up a bit. Each one took the responsibility for reading several chapters. Everyone took a colored leaf with a reading assignment on it, and on the back they wrote what they had learned from it. The leaves were then put together to make a tree representing the one in Lehi’s dream.
Comments included things like “God will show you miracles after you show him your faith” and “I learned the righteous are blessed and helped by the Lord.”

When I was young, my friends and I often played ball in an alley behind our home. A woman named Mrs. Shinas rented a tiny house nearby, and she used to watch us play from her window. She rarely came out of her house, and when she did, she never smiled. We all thought that she was mean. She had a big dog, an English setter, and whenever one of our baseballs rolled in its direction—which happened often—Mrs. Shinas would send the dog to fetch it. We wouldn’t see the ball again. Soon we ran out of baseballs.

In those days, we didn’t have lawn sprinklers, and so each day I watered our lawn by hand with a hose. One day as I stood watering our little stretch of grass, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn looked a little shabby. It took only a few more minutes to water it, too, and soon I was watering her lawn each day.

When autumn came that year, one of my tasks was to clear our yard of leaves. I sprayed the ground with a hose, pushing the leaves into a pile with the force of the water. I decided to gather up the leaves on Mrs. Shinas’s yard as well, and as I was doing this one day, she came to her door and beckoned for me to come inside. I turned off the hose and went into her house.

She invited me to sit in her living room, and she gave me a cookie and a glass of milk. As I sat there eating my cookie, she showed me her collection of little china dogs. I could tell that they were her most prized possession. Then she thanked me for taking care of her lawn. It was the first conversation I had ever had with her.

Mrs. Shinas then went into her kitchen and returned with a box. In it were all the baseballs that her dog had taken. She handed me the box, said thank you—and smiled! It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile.

In 2007, I made my first visit to a church in Petit-Goâve, the southernmost part of Haiti in a chapel that currently houses Les Palmes Stake. On that Sunday, the joyful songs of the Primary children echoed throughout the chapel, creating an atmosphere of spirituality. The melodious words, “I am a child of God . . . teach me all that I must do to live with him someday,” seemed to transcend a childlike innocence upon me and a great desire to know everything. I was captivated by the vibrant testimonies of the Book of Mormon, the truths it teaches, and Joseph Smith, the prophet.
In the same year, after numerous lessons from dedicated and inspired missionaries, I took the step of baptism, thus beginning a spiritual journey within the restored gospel. The years passed. I served a full-time mission and married an extraordinary woman in the covenant of eternal marriage.
During my mission journey, I loved teaching from the Book of Mormon and had extraordinary experiences with the converting power of the Book of Mormon. Nephi’s purpose to persuade men to come to God is not only his purpose but also the ultimate purpose of the Book of Mormon. The passage from 2 Nephi 25:26 was always on my lips whenever I had to answer the question: what is the Book of Mormon about? “And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
The experience of the converting power of the Book of Mormon did not end after my mission. In 2016, I was called to teach institute classes for adults. That year, we were studying the Book of Mormon. One day, as we studied King Benjamin’s powerful and inspired discourse in the book of Mosiah, two brothers in my class, carrying a secret burden of deep family problems, were moved to tears. Without saying a word, they left the classroom, and instinctively, I followed them. In the church courtyard, I found them talking, crying, and supporting each other. Respecting their privacy, I returned to the classroom, but concern tinged with hope accompanied me. At the end of the lesson, the two brothers returned, but this time, their presence was marked by peace. One of them spoke, sharing the miracle that had just occurred. He explained that thanks to the teachings of the Book of Mormon and the words of King Benjamin, they had found the strength to confront their family difficulties. In that testifying moment, I was reminded of Alma’s words, “The preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just—yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them.” (Alma 31:5).
That day, those brothers experienced the testimony of more than one in its fulness through the power of divine words, confirming the universal truth that the word of God can breathe life into the most wounded hearts.
I testify that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, that it contains the fulness of the eternal gospel, and that it can pierce the most wounded of hearts.

This same kind of service happens every day among you, the students. I served as a bishop of a campus ward a number of years ago. I had a young man who came to campus shy, unsure of himself, and very socially challenged. I worried for him and wondered how he would be treated. As time went by, I watched him with interest and noticed that over time, he began to change, to grow in confidence, and to smile and laugh with his peers at church. One day, in an interview, I asked him what made him so happy. He responded: "Bishop, I have the very best roommates in the world! They have become my best friends. All of them have served missions, and they have treated me like a loved little brother. I never thought I could make it as a college student, but they won't let me fail!"

This young man went on to serve a mission and returned to pay forward the gift he had received from these good and valiant men, who refused to let him fail. This kind of thing happens every semester on this campus. It happens because you are trying to be disciples of Jesus Christ.

Dad and I went fishing for breakfast. The early sun rays had just peeked over the hills when I hooked something.
“You’ve caught the bottom of the lake,” Dad said.
But how could the bottom of the lake be moving around the canoe?
“It just seems like that because the canoe’s moving,” he said.
But since I was slowly reeling it up, we decided I must have snagged a piece of wood.
“But Dad,” I said, “if it’s a log, why is it jerking? Dad, it’s pulling the line back out!”
And the piece of wood swam underneath where Dad was sitting in the canoe.
As if not to scare the fish, Dad whispered, “Wow! You’ve only got four-pound test line! Better let some out and play with him awhile.”
The fish could easily snap the line. I would have to be careful and wear him out. I unreeled some line and waited.
“That’s the biggest mackinaw I’ve ever seen,” Dad said. “He’s longer than the canoe is wide.”
For what seemed like hours I let out line and reeled line in. Finally I eased the “mac” alongside the canoe, and, since we had no net, Dad reached down and slipped his finger inside the gills. I leaned to the other side to counterbalance Dad as he lifted the fish into the boat.
I felt a sudden lunge, heard a splash, and then heard a dreadful moan from Dad. I twisted around just in time to see a massive dark green shape swim away. Dad slowly sank to the bottom of the canoe and stared blankly at the water.
“Kev,” he said, “you caught the biggest fish I’ve ever seen, and I let it get away.”
My momentary anger quickly caved in. Dad was hurting all right. But he was hurting for me. When he realized how big that fish was, he could have taken over and reeled it in himself. It was, after all, his pole, his lure, his line. But no, he gave me the chance and now was in pain because forces beyond my control had deprived me. He said he was sorry, and eventually we laughed about it and went on to catch other fish.
But something was frozen on that day in July when the fish swam away from the boat. A moment in time was frozen in my memory, a moment when I learned that my dad is also my buddy, and that he cares very much what happens to me.

My name is Micah Bybee. I’m a fourth grade student at Millville Elementary School in Millville, Utah. My teacher, Mrs. Bartelt, asked for volunteers to work as peer tutors in her classroom. She explained that she needed them to teach a few students who needed extra practice in reading. I like reading, and I wanted to help other children have fun reading. My parents gave their permission for me to be a peer tutor in my classroom every morning for twenty minutes.
It took Mrs. Bartelt about four days to train me to be a peer tutor. I learned how to teach a special reading assignment to a girl named Erica Bothwell (a fictitious name)* who has a learning disability. Most of the time it was fun and exciting to be a peer tutor. But it also took a lot of hard work to help her learn how to read words that I thought everyone knew.
I taught Erica how to sound out letters and to read words from a workbook and some other books. Afterward, she read her lessons to Mrs. Bartelt. It was exciting to hear Erica say the sounds and words that I had taught her. She and I were both excited when our teacher placed a special marker on the bulletin board after Erica had completed her first workbook. I invited her over to my house after school, and we celebrated by eating ice cream!
Erica worked very hard during our tutoring sessions, and we enjoyed being together every morning, sitting at a separate table where we reviewed words. She was patient with me, and I learned to be patient with her. Words that came easily to me were often very hard for her to learn. She was often frustrated because she couldn’t learn as fast as most of the other students. But whenever she was discouraged, we worked even harder to learn new words. I brought some stickers from home to give to her whenever she passed off a chapter in her workbook with Mrs. Bartelt. Sometimes after school, Erica and I would practice her reading assignments and do math homework too.
I felt like a real teacher as I tutored, and I noticed that my own schoolwork improved. I concentrated more during school, and I studied harder. Before I became a tutor, I didn’t like doing my homework. Now I do it because I understand how valuable it is to try hard and to learn new things. I was able to practice my own reading skills, too, which made me a better reader. I am more accepting now of children with handicaps. My mother said that I’ve become more tolerant of my sisters’ behavior at home too. Now I accept them for their own personalities and abilities and try not to be critical of their imperfections.
Erica hadn’t liked reading because it was so difficult for her, and she’d felt embarrassed when she tried to read in front of others. The tutoring taught her reading skills and gave her confidence to read more difficult words and stories. She began to feel the joy that comes from being able to read an entire story and understand its meanings.
Erica and I became good friends, and I learned that people who have handicaps like to do many of the same things that I do. I also better understand that we are all children of our Heavenly Father and that we should respect and love each other. We have differences, but we are more alike than we realize. For example, Erica and I both enjoy riding our bikes. We watch TV together and go to swimming lessons on Saturdays. We even practiced reading the Book of Mormon together. I’m so glad that I had the chance to be her tutor. I think that she’s glad too.
I worked with Erica for the whole year, and the time went very fast. It wasn’t very long before she started checking out books from our school library. Her mother and dad were excited to hear Erica reading to her brothers and sisters.
When the school year was over, I wondered who learned the most—Erica or me.

Mary Carmen said, “I first learned about the Church when two missionaries came tracting through our block. We were very active in another church, but we couldn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord the way we can feel it now. The day before the missionaries came, my mother had been praying that the gospel might enter our home more fully, but she certainly didn’t expect it to be delivered by two Mormon missionaries! I know that the Church is true. I have no doubts. I feel I am the happiest person in the world. I love every person here today because I know that you are all my brothers and sisters. I want the whole world to be happy.”

Mom hung up the phone slowly. “Ben,” she called quietly, so as not to waken the younger children. “I need your help.”
“Sure, Mom,” Ben said, closing his book. “What is it?”
“Dad is coming home from his business trip tonight,” Mom began, “but planes have had trouble landing at the airport because of the fog. I just called there. They expect Dad’s plane to land, but the bad weather has made it late—so late that Dad will miss his ride home from the airport. It’s a dangerous night for driving, but I’ll have to go and pick him up.”
“Do you want me to baby-sit?”
“No. I’ll ask Mrs. King to come over and sit while the little ones sleep. It’s awfully late, I know, Ben, but I’d like to have you come with me to the airport. I’d appreciate your company.”
“Sure, Mom!” Ben dashed to the closet. “I’ll get my coat.” It wasn’t often that Mom even allowed Ben to stay up late.
Once in the car, Ben realized how thick the fog was. It drifted past his window like clouds of pale cotton candy. He could scarcely see the white lines marking the lanes of the freeway, let alone the signs giving directions. “I sure hope you know the way to the airport, Mom. This is like trying to look through mashed potatoes.”
“Actually,” Mom replied hesitantly, “I’ve only driven to the airport once before, and that was in daylight. I know which signs to look for, but without those, I’m pretty lost. That’s one reason I asked you to come along. I hope that two pairs of eyes watching for the signs will be better than one.”
Ben stared into the milky whiteness outside his window, trying to see anything besides fog. The words of the prayer Mom had offered before they left the house meant more to him now: “Please bless us with safety and guide us to our destination.”
Mom seemed to be whispering. “Did you say something, Mom?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sweetheart, I did,” Mom answered with a smile, “but not to you. I was praying. The fog’s getting worse. I can hardly see the road at all now, and it’s too late to turn back. Please pray, too, Ben.”
Ben didn’t need to be asked. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he was saying silently, his eyes closed, “remember what Mom prayed for before. We need help to find our way through this fog.”
When Ben opened his eyes, in front of their car and a little to the right, he saw two small red lights glowing dimly through the fog. “Look, Mom,” he pointed. “Lights!”
“I see them,” Mom sighed. “They’re taillights. Another car must be in front of us. If we follow it, maybe it will help us stay on the road.”
They followed the taillights through thick fog and through thin fog. Once, when the fog cleared a bit, Ben saw that the other car was a rather ugly old green one. “It’s not a very pretty car,” he laughed, “but I don’t think I’ve ever liked one better.”
“Me, either,” Mom agreed. “Watch for signs now. We need to exit the freeway soon and take another road.”
Ben’s eyes searched for signs. In the thinner fog, he and Mom saw their exit sign at the same moment. But while they had been looking for it, they lost sight of the old green car.
“I feel as if I’ve lost a friend,” Mom said. “I wish I could thank whoever is in that car. They’ll never know how much they helped us. Without them, I don’t know if we would have made it through the first challenge of our trip.”
“The first challenge? That means there must be another one.”
“More than one, I’m afraid. It’ll be darker on this country road, and there’s only one little sign to mark the airport turn. If we miss it in the fog, we’ll really be lost. Keep praying, Ben.”
Usually when he was with Mom, Ben talked nonstop about everything he could think of. But now he was too scared. He felt that they were all alone in a big empty whiteness that was swirling in darkness. It was a lonesome and fearful feeling.
After a few minutes, Mom spoke again. “Do you know what this reminds me of, Ben?” Ben shook his head. “Remember Lehi’s dream that we talked about in family home evening a few weeks ago? Remember how all the people were striving toward the tree when thick mists of darkness surrounded them and many lost their way? Well, this is like being in a mist of darkness. We know where we’re trying to go, but we can’t see to get there. But some people made it through the mist. How did they, Ben?”
“They held on to the iron rod.”
“And what is the iron rod?”
“The word of God,” Ben answered.
“Well, I’m thinking of some of the words of God right now. I remember that He said, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’* I think ‘whithersoever thou goest’ even includes through the fog to the airport, don’t you?”
Ben smiled a little into the darkness. His eyes strained for a glimpse of a sign out the window, and in his mind he kept praying, “Please help us find our way.”
Mom slowed down so suddenly that they came to a complete stop. “Do you see something out there?” she asked.
Ben’s eyes ached as he tried to see. He watched one tiny patch of fog clear just enough to reveal a sign: AIRPORT.
“Oh, Ben!” Mom’s voice trembled as she turned the car. “We’re not alone out here, are we? Only one more challenge now.”
“What’s that?”
“At the airport, there will be quite a bit of traffic, and since I don’t know my way around very well, I’ll have to go slowly and follow signs. I hope we don’t have an accident in the traffic and the fog.”
Mom was right about the traffic. As they neared the airport, cars and buses and all sorts of vehicles converged from all directions, some going much too fast for a foggy night. Mom was forced to keep up with them. “I can’t see the signs, Ben, can you?” Her voice was tense. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”
Ben didn’t know how to help. He was nervous about the speeding cars all around them. Then, just ahead, Ben spotted a familiar-looking ugly green car. He relaxed his clenched hand to point; then he and Mom glanced wordlessly at each other. Mom changed lanes and followed the green car right to the entrance of the parking lot. She parked the car, turned off the engine, leaned back weakly, and looked at Ben.
“Mom,” said Ben, after a quiet moment. “Do you think Heavenly Father answered our prayers with that ugly green car?”
Mom smiled. “What do you think, Ben?”
“Well, I think …” Ben swallowed. Then he grinned. “I think Heavenly Father can answer prayers any way He wants to. Let’s go find Dad.”

The “prison temple” involved a time of obscurity, adversity, irony, and testimony. W. W. Phelps had briefly faltered, being part of the betrayals that had placed Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail. Joseph was, at the time, indignant over Brother Phelps’ failures. Yet later on, Joseph was generous. The next year, 1840, when W. W. Phelps pled for readmission into the Church, Joseph Smith, who pledged from jail to act later “in the spirit of generosity,” wrote a powerful and redemptive letter, the closing lines of which were, “Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, For friends at first, are friends again at last” (HC 4:164; see also pp. 162–63).

No wonder a grateful Brother Phelps, soon after Joseph’s June 1844 martyrdom, wrote the text “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah” (Hymns, 1985, no. 27).

Brenna Reaney is just one of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, Torrance California Stake, who donated hair. For Brenna, the sacrifice of her long hair represented something concrete she could do to help Jessica James, one of her friends from the ward. Jessica, 17, had been diagnosed with aplastic anemia, a life threatening illness that would require chemotherapy treatment. At first, the girls were upset that Jessica would lose her beautiful long hair. But after Jessica had a brain hemorrhage and sank into a coma, they quickly realized that they had not understood the full spectrum of what was important. As Peggy Kirts, a member of the ward, said, “It’s been a very helpless couple of months, with everyone wanting to help and not really knowing what to do or how to do it.”
The girls would visit Jessica in the hospital as she struggled to awaken from the coma and learn again to communicate. While there, they saw many little bald children in the same area of the hospital undergoing treatment. They read to Jessica and sat with her, but they felt that they wanted to do more.
Sister Kirts, a professional hairdresser, met a family who had come to her salon for haircuts. They were donating their hair as their family’s Christmas project. From them she got the information about donating hair and did a little research. A minimum of 10 inches of hair was needed, bound in a ponytail. Especially needed was fine, light colored hair that would be more appropriate for children’s wigs.
With some hesitation, Sister Kirts presented the idea to the girls in her ward. It wouldn’t help Jessica directly, but the donation of their hair would help other girls and boys. At first, the thought was stunning. Ten inches! That was so much. “They were petrified at first,” said Sister Kirts. “I didn’t want to pressure them. But later that day, the phone just started ringing. And, one at a time, the girls called and said, ‘I’m in.’ I couldn’t believe that they would do it.”
The word spread through the ward. Even two little girls from Primary joined the Young Women in donating their hair. The local newspaper and a television station covered the event because so many girls were donating their hair at the same time. And at Christmastime, people could not help but compare this event to O. Henry’s story “Gift of the Magi,” about a young couple who each gives up the thing they value most to buy a gift for the other. In the story, the young wife sells her long hair to buy a chain for her husband’s heirloom watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.
After the young women’s story aired on the news and was printed in the newspaper, the salon offered to cut the hair of anyone who wanted to donate it. Dozens of people responded. “Teenagers have so much power for good or for bad,” said Sister Kirts. “For these people who came to donate their hair, their biggest reason was that if an 18-year-old girl can do this, I can too.”
Rachael Ward, another of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, was a little frightened to go back to school after Christmas vacation with her new short hair. “It was awful waiting for that day. Everyone noticed my hair, even people I didn’t know before. A lot of people looked at me differently. They said it made them realize that people really do good deeds for each other. It’s not just a story on television. That made me feel good.”
Rachael’s friend Brittanie Streetmaker also donated her hair. “I was nervous, but now whenever I look in the mirror, I think of a little girl who will be so happy to have a cute styled wig. My friends ask me if I miss my hair, and I say I do, but I don’t regret it for a second.”
Editor’s note: Jessica is home from the hospital. She still suffers from partial paralysis and is continuing treatment for aplastic anemia. She loves the way the girls sacrificed to help others.

Recently, I was called as the temple and family history leader in my ward. In the week or so prior, I had been told a calling was on its way. Though I spent a lot of time thinking through what it could be, family history never occurred to me.
Before that meeting with the bishop, I’d done a little family history work—enough to bring some names to the temple and understand how to find them. Thankfully, my wife is passionate about the work and taught me to do it. It wasn’t something I ever spent much time exploring.
Aside from temple work, and bringing names for proxy ordinances, I didn’t see or understand what the work had to do with me or what blessings I could find in the work. To be honest, I had never attempted to liken the activities to myself for my profit and learning. (See 1 Nephi 19:23.)
When I received the calling and was set apart, I knew it was essential that I find out more about family history, how to find things out, what resources are out there for our eternal benefit of both us and our ancestors.
That very same day, as I got more familiar with the FamilySearch website and Ancestry.com, a scripture I had never given much, if any, consideration came alive for me in an unexpected way. “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the LORD:
“And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse” (Malachi 4:5–6).
I was receiving revelation of how to find sources and how to check the information therein. What had previously been a list of names which allowed me to participate in ordinances became a list of real people, with real experiences, with real worth in the eyes of God. Their life stories inspired me to work harder as a disciple of Jesus Christ and to be more dedicated in being a peacemaker. After all, it is pleasing to God when we “dwell together in unity” (Psalm 133:1).
Seeing my relationship links with people on FamilySearch deepened my desire to keep covenants so I could help them receive the ordinances necessary for salvation and exaltation.

And then he left on his mission to Mexico.
Oh sure, I wrote to him like everyone else, but our letters to each other could have been form letters; there was nothing personal in them. If this wasn’t enough, the family was in a Darrell-mania craze.
“Look, Katy, another letter from Darrell. Would you like to read it?” Mom would ask as she held out the letter as if it were from heaven.
“Uh, no thanks, Mom. Just leave it here. I’ll read it when I’ve got some time,” I’d mumble. Well, if I wouldn’t read it, then she’d proceed to tell me all about it, which irritated me all the more.
Dad was just as bad with the slides Darrell sent. Dad was forever nagging me to come and see them through his viewer. When I’d politely decline because of homework or something, he’d act hurt and say, “I guess you don’t care about your brother’s mission, huh?” Then I’d bristle.
With ward members and other relatives and friends always asking about Darrell, he was the only subject talked about wherever I went. I was sick to death of hearing about Darrell.
One day Mom started to talk with me—about Darrell, of course. But instead of talking about his mission, she recalled different memories of him, some good and some bad.
“You know, even though we had some rough spots, I really miss him,” Mom said. Then she looked at me. “Do you miss him sometimes?”
I meant just to say, “Of course I do,” but I felt strongly that I should say what was true. “Not really. I hardly miss him at all.”
Mom looked shocked, so I spoke quickly. “It’s not that I don’t love him, Mom. It’s just that I really don’t know him. How can you miss someone you hardly even know? Think about it, Mom. What have Darrell and I ever done together to make us close? When was the last time you remember Darrell and me doing something together?”
She didn’t answer because, like me, she couldn’t think of any.
That night I decided to write to Darrell. I started with the usual lines about school when I stopped. I thought to myself, Why not tell him how I really feel? So I did. I poured it all out into that letter, all about how I really didn’t know him, and my feelings about his mission. I also added some things that were going on with me, about my new music lessons and about my goals to become a writer someday.
As I sealed it, I knew it wouldn’t be the most cheerful letter he’d ever receive, but it expressed my true feelings and I knew if I didn’t tell him I’d go crazy.
I was on pins and needles waiting for his answer. I came home one day to find a letter from Darrell waiting for me. I ripped it open and began to read:
“Dear Katy,
“I was very thankful for your letter. On Thursday I woke up homesick—something was very wrong. When my companion and I left to go tracting, we both felt impressed to check the mailbox, but there’s never anything in the mail until after four o’clock. But there was your letter. I love you, and I get the feeling that you want to talk. Fasting, prayer, and many tears have gone into this letter. I hope you will read it carefully. …”
He went on to tell me that I was right. We really didn’t know each other, and so he told me he’d like to be friends.
“… I can understand how tiring it must be to hear about me all of the time, so here in Mexico you have some relief from ‘Darrell-mania.’ I want to hear all about you!”
He was very impressed with my goals and my high school schedule and even offered some advice.
He told me many other things that are dear to my heart but too personal to tell anyone else. But it made me feel warm and good inside. It made me remember my experience during my 13th year and our moment of closeness. I remembered that feeling of closeness, because it was back again only much stronger than before.
I was crying by the time I finished his letter. Darrell truly cared about me, and my letter had helped him. Before, I’d been jealous of him and his mission. I resented all of the talk about him and the looks of pride in my parents’ faces, because it made me feel as if I were loved less, cared about less. I felt anything I could do would never be as important as Darrell’s mission. But Darrell made me feel so important, as if what I did mattered. And he really did want to hear all about me. I was deeply touched and deeply grateful.
From then on my letters to and from him were much more meaningful. He took part in helping me with my problems and in helping me to become a better person and learn to grow up. I love him so very much, and the best part about it is I know that my brother loves me too.

Cody stared at the blank piece of paper in front of him. It’s no use, he thought disgustedly. I’m never going to come up with anything, even if I sit here all day. While he sat worrying about his problem, there was a knock on his bedroom door. “Come in,” he said.
In walked Jason, his next-door neighbor and the best friend in the whole world. He was carrying a dirty orange basketball. “Come on—let’s go shoot some hoops.”
“I can’t,” Cody answered. “I have to finish my Primary talk.”
“You’re still working on that? Don’t you have to give it tomorrow?”
Cody nodded as Jason sat next to him on the bed. “What’s it supposed to be on, anyway?”
Cody frowned. “That’s the problem,” he said. “Sister Hansen said she wants me to talk about ‘My Pioneer Ancestors.’ I told her I don’t have any pioneer ancestors because my parents are both converts. She just smiled and said, ‘As members of the Church we all have pioneer ancestors, Cody.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason asked.
“Beats me. I’m probably the only kid in the whole Primary who doesn’t have at least one ancestor who pulled a handcart across Wyoming.”
“Why don’t you just read a story about some pioneer?” Jason asked.
“Because after she told me that business about everyone having pioneer ancestors, she told me that she didn’t want me to read some old story out of a magazine or something.”
“Boy, she really knows how to make it tough,” Jason sympathized. “I know! Why don’t you borrow one of my pioneer ancestors.”
“Great idea!” Cody slapped Jason on the back. Then he slumped down again. “Wait a minute,” he said, “that won’t work. Your mom teaches the CTRs. She’ll know what I’m doing.”
“Oh. Right. Are you positive you don’t have any pioneer ancestors? Not all the descendants of some of my pioneer ancestors stayed in the Church. Maybe one of your ancestors joined the Church, crossed the plains, then left Utah.”
Cody’s face brightened. “Maybe so. I never thought of that. Let’s go downstairs and see if anyone knows.”
Cody’s sister, Karyn, was just coming in the front door when they got downstairs. “Karyn,” Cody asked, “Do you know if we have any pioneer ancestors?”
“What kind of pioneer?” she asked, as she hung up her coat in the hall closet.
“What do you mean?” Cody asked. “How many kinds of pioneers are there?”
Karyn smiled. “Oh there are lots of kinds. My history teacher told us that a pioneer is anyone who prepares the way for others to follow.” The boys looked confused, so she explained further. “Like how the pilgrims prepared the way for others to come to America. Or how early doctors paved the way for better medicine.”
“How about Christopher Columbus?” Cody asked. “Wasn’t he a pioneer for other explorers?”
“Sure,” Karyn said, smiling. “That’s another good example.”
“I thought pioneers were only the people who pulled handcarts across the plains,” Jason said.
“Well, they were pioneers, too,” Karyn said. “Because of their great sacrifices, the Church grew strong. For many of them, the decision to join the Church affected their families for generations. That’s what made them such great pioneers.”
Cody thought for a minute about Karyn’s definition of pioneers. He was pretty sure that none of the other kids in Primary had thought of pioneers like that before. Suddenly he had a terrific idea for his talk.
“Thanks, Sis. I know exactly what I’m going to give my talk on now.”
Jason looked at him in surprise. “You do? What?”
Cody grinned. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”
The next day in Primary, Cody sat in the front of the room, watching everyone else. He saw Jason sitting with the rest of his class. They were all being more reverent than Cody had ever imagined they could be. Jason must have told them all about Cody’s mysterious talk, and they were all anxious to hear it. Then he saw his mom, dad, and sister come in and sit in the back and smile at him.
Soon Primary began. After everyone sang the birthday song, it was time for his talk. He slowly walked to the pulpit.
“For my talk, I decided to bring along a couple of real pioneers,” he said. Jason stared at Cody. The rest of the children were craning their necks, looking for pioneers. Even some of the teachers were searching for something out of the ordinary.
“These pioneers didn’t cross the ocean, or pull a handcart across the plains, or even freeze any toes or fingers. But they did suffer a lot as the first ones in their families to join the Church. Their friends and family tried to discourage them from joining. They had to change their lives. And when they were married in the temple, no one in their families could be there. I think they are as much pioneers as anyone who crossed the plains to Utah. In fact, without their pioneering spirits, I wouldn’t be standing here today. Mom, Dad, could you please come up and share your pioneer testimonies with us?”
Cody watched his mom and dad walk up to the front of the room. Karyn smiled at Cody and gave him a big wink, as if to say “Good for you!” Cody sat back and listened intently to his mother’s testimony. Maybe, he thought, someday I’ll be a pioneer, too.

My neighbor came across the street and said, “Hey, guess what we’re doing for youth conference? We get to build two barns.”
I grunted. “Two barns? Thrill city. Whoever came up with that dumb idea? Youth conferences are supposed to be fun.”
“We’ll have fun working.”
“Get real,” I told him. “I have a hard time cleaning my room.”
Maybe the adults thought I was Laman or Lemuel at the next stake dance committee meeting. I asked them, “Whatever happened to white river rafting for youth conference? Do you really expect us to get up at 5:00 A.M. on the first three days of our summer vacation?” One of the girls on the committee decided she wouldn’t go as she’d wreck her fingernails. She threatened to organize something for her own ward. None of our complaining did any good. The stake youth leaders stuck to their plan.
A fierce hailstorm pelted Duvall, Washington, the night before the conference. “Bummer, now they’ll have to cancel our exciting barn building extravaganza,” I said sarcastically.
Miraculously, the weather cleared, and I found myself standing with 180 kids in carpenter aprons, pockets full of nails and wearing a T-shirt that read, “You Love Who You Serve.”
We were given the choice of helping to build a barn/shed or a barn/house. I picked the barn/shed. It sounded easier. We banged nails. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful. Ward Roney, the to-be-owner of the barn/shed was a sturdy man, weathered by long hours on the tractor. He told me his favorite sound was the belch a cow makes when she’s in a warm shed eating hay. His old shed blew down in a bad storm, and the insurance wouldn’t pay to replace it. He was either brave or foolish to let a bunch of teenagers build his shed. Surely he realized we’d never finish the huge thing. If we could do it, one observer noted, it’d be an Amish barn raising by Mormons for Catholics.
Brother Beecham, the builder in charge of our shed, held the American Homes world record for the fastest home framed. The old record stood at 36 hours, and Beecham’s crew accomplished it in four. I got a kick out of watching him stroll across thin high timbers like they were sidewalks. With the construction boom in Seattle, I knew Brother Beecham was passing up a lot of money to teach us.
Normally, when I work I look at my watch every five minutes. Before I knew it, the walls were up, and we were ready for a crane to position the giant trusses of the roof. But there was no crane. Instead of machine power, we’d use muscle power, and some of the muscles were mine. The ground crew strained to position one truss. Then three of us on the roof pulled up the point with a rope as the ground crew hoisted. We cheered when the truss was securely nailed into place. What a team. Up there, 30 feet off the ground, a great sense of brotherhood developed between the “roof crew.” It was great up there. It was fun. I really developed a closeness to all of them as we worked and sweat and hammered our thumbs hour after hour.
The first day some of the girls were afraid to hit the nails on the head. By the second day they were mean. They’d developed aim and aggression in their hammering. Unfortunately, the girls used their new skills on the boys at the pie eating contest, which turned into a pie throwing war.
I added a word to the theme, “You Love Who You Serve.” I thought it should also say, “You Love Who You Serve With.” I didn’t know 75 percent of the people the first morning. We’d lived in the same stake for years and never spoken to each other. On a construction site, you have no choice. You have to say to the person next to you, “Grab the end of that board.” “Watch your head!” “Help me nail this down.” And people were great. If you asked them for an 18-foot board they got it. True, the physical structures were impressive, but even better were the structures built between each other.
There were lag times when there was no work for me, and I thought I’d have fun if I had nothing to do. But I really amazed myself. It got so I wanted to work.
Mr. Roney told us the quality of our work was A-1, top-notch. The look on his face as this place went up taught me I’m happiest when making someone else happy.
It appeared that there was no way we could finish two such big projects in just three days. We poured on the steam. At first a few people hung around the first-aid station and in the hay, drinking pop. But even the “resters” helped when the TV and newspaper reporters came out with their cameras. We wanted to work through dinner, but after a half hour, the adults made us come down. Funny, I’ve never refused food before. Dusk was stealing precious light. There were just a few things left to do. Thirty of us stayed to finish instead of going back to the city to clean up for the dance.
That evening we had a victory celebration! We danced in a barn we had built, and it didn’t fall down. After seeing each other at our worst for three days, our appearance mattered very little. The last day we had a testimony meeting in the barn/house, and 200 people sat on benches on the top floor. The sun streamed into the room, bathing everyone in the warm blond reflection of new wood. I thought, “We built this; we really did it.” We had saved the Dazey’s and Roney’s more than $20,000.00 in labor costs.
When the sacrament came to me, I thought of Jesus Christ in a whole new way. He was a carpenter. I remembered working along with my friends and feeling something. I glanced around. It wasn’t just my friends; the Savior was there too.

While serving as a mission president in Africa, I was forever taught this great truth. I was on my way to a meeting when I saw a young boy alone, crying hysterically on the side of the road. A voice within me said, “Stop and help that boy.” As quick as I heard this voice, in a split second, I rationalized: “You can’t stop. You will be late. You’re the presiding officer and can’t walk in late.”

When I arrived at the meetinghouse, I heard the same voice say again: “Go help that boy.” I then gave my car keys to a Church member named Afasi and asked him to bring the boy to me. About 20 minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The young boy was outside.

He was about 10 years of age. We found out his father was dead and his mother was in jail. He lived in the slums of Accra with a caretaker, who gave him food and a place to sleep. To earn his board, he sold dried fish on the streets. But after this day of hawking, when he reached in his pocket, he found a hole in it. He had lost all his earnings. Afasi and I knew immediately that if he returned without the money, he would be called a liar, most likely beaten, and then cast out onto the street. It was in that moment of alarm when I first saw him. We calmed his fears, replaced his loss, and took him back home to his caretaker.

As I went home that evening, I realized two great truths. First, I knew as never before that God is mindful of each of us and will never forsake us; and second, I knew that we must always hearken to the voice of the Spirit within us and go “straightway” wherever it takes us, regardless of our fears or any inconvenience.

The aftereffects of cheating are vividly described in a letter I received last week from a former BYU student who wrote to apologize for cheating on several examinations at BYU ten years ago. I quote from her letter:

How paltry the false reward of a slightly higher grade compared to the pangs of conscience I have felt as a result of my dishonesty. Let no one scoff at “a little” cheating as being a minor offense of no account, for the conscience of anyone who knows the commandments of God and the truths of the Gospel of Jesus Christ will prove him gravely mistaken, as I have learned most painfully.

The writer of this letter was seeking to confess her wrong and complete the repentance she needs to clear her mind of this matter. As I read her letter, I thought of the teaching in the Doctrine and Covenants:

By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold he will confess them and forsake them. [D&C 58:43]

I also thought of the cleansing miracle of forgiveness, which promises that when we have truly repented of our sins we will be forgiven and the Lord will “remember them no more” (D&C 58:42). In contrast, if we are unrepentant and rebellious, the Lord has decreed that in time to come our “iniquities shall be spoken upon the housetops, and [our] secret acts shall be revealed” (D&C 1:3).

When Jennifer and I were newly married and attending school in Logan, Utah we were faced with a choice. We could attend the resident ward based on where we lived or we could attend a married student ward. Honestly, I can't tell you now any of the items we discussed as we considered our choice. But in hindsight, we made the right decision for us.

In our married student ward we had a bishopric and a stake presidency who were focused on providing experiences to us as young married students that would shape the rest of our lives. We received service opportunities accompanied by excellent training. Our bishop emphasized planting our roots and being in the ward on Sunday fulfilling our callings rather than looking for chances to be other places. Sure, there are appropriate reasons to be away occasionally. But as we took the challenge we realized this principle doesn't only apply to our Sundays and our church meetings, but also to our family and home life.

This and similar patterns of behavior, where we are regularly found where we should be and doing what we should be doing, speak to commitment, diligence, and being "steadfast and immovable."[8] Establishing these patterns can provide an anchor in a harbor when the winds of life blow.