Gospel Story Finder

Work was coming to an end for the day at Laidlaw Waste Management Systems in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, and Don Hughes, a high councilor in the Edmonton Alberta Millwoods Stake, was sitting at his desk thinking about leaving for home a little earlier than usual.
It was about 3:30 on the afternoon of 31 July 1987, during the hottest week many residents of Edmonton could remember for a long time. It had been unusually humid. The evening before, a strange cloud mass had moved across the city, looking almost like a special visual effect made for a movie.
Brother Hughes’ wife had visited him a little earlier in the day and had suggested that he leave the office then.
“I had this feeling that I wanted to go home, but I had a stronger feeling that said, ‘Stay. You have some things to do here,’” he recalls. “I didn’t know what I had left to finish, but I listened to the prompting and stayed. I told my wife I’d come home soon.”
Shortly afterward, the electricity went out in that part of the city. One of the seven people in the office, looking from the window, pointed out the funnel cloud of a tornado coming from the south. “As soon as I saw it,” Brother Hughes said, “it was as though the Spirit said to me, ‘That is going to come right through this place. You’ve got to get these people ready.’”
Brother Hughes told his co-workers to keep watching the approaching storm, then he went into the back area of the building. The twelve or more workers there were also watching the storm develop. It grew bigger by the second. The tornado was clearly moving toward them.
Brother Hughes remembered that a friend who used to live in the United States told him that if a tornado ever came his way, to get to a sturdy, protected spot. “I told the men to get to the spare parts room. It had concrete block walls and was in a central part of the building. But I could tell that no one was really listening to me, they were too busy watching the approaching tornado.”
He ran to the front office and saw the tornado ready to touch down to the ground. It made contact in a nearby lumberyard, which was rapidly sucked up into the cloud. By now the tornado filled the whole sky. Sounding like a huge freight train, it sucked piles of wood into its blackness, along with vehicles, sheds, and machinery.
“I told all the office staff to get to the lunchroom right away and stay there until the storm was over. I watched until everyone had gone, then went to check on the other employees at the rear of the building,” Brother Hughes says. “The building south of us was collapsing in the storm. One of our men was taking a photograph, but the rest of them looked nervous. They were wondering where they could go for safety.”
Again, Brother Hughes directed them to the spare parts room, but they still hesitated.
“Then I shouted instructions to them louder and stronger than I knew I could. I felt it was the Spirit working, telling them to ‘Move, now!’ It seemed to clear their minds.” They all quickly went to the spare parts room.
When he was sure his co-workers were safe, Brother Hughes started running to the front of the building. The tornado had already destroyed the trucking company across the highway and was gaining on Brother Hughes as he ran.
Windows started blowing out in the Laidlaw building. “The noise was like shotguns going off—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—as they shattered and exploded.”
Running into a small storage room for shelter, he slammed the door shut and braced himself against the wall, hoping everyone else in the building was protected.
“I felt more than heard the storm get louder outside. It roared like a train or a jet engine, a rumbling sound mixed with a high-pitched moan.
“I did a lot of praying quickly. I prayed for the people who were there with me. I prayed for my family and the families of those who were there, that they would be watched over and protected. I prayed and hoped it was the Lord’s will that I would survive, but said I was ready to come before him if that was his will.”
As Brother Hughes prayed, the building—sheets of steel on a steel framework—blew apart. Outside, semi-trailer tractors, steel storage vaults, massive air compressors, and industrial garbage containers were tossed around in the air like toys. A wall of the storage room fell in, pushing Brother Hughes to the floor, but sheltering him from other debris. When he opened his eyes and looked up where the ceiling had been, the roaring black cloud was over his head. He was terrified that it might touch down to earth again, but the tornado moved away from the building.
Brother Hughes crawled out of his shelter and forced the battered door open to escape from the storage room. “I expected to see part of the building damaged, but there was nothing left intact. It was as though someone had flattened things with a giant mallet.”
The husband of one of the women from the front office had arrived just before the tornado hit, and had found shelter nearby. He and Brother Hughes ran to where the lunchroom walls had caved in on top of each other, forming a mound of debris. Climbing to the top of the mound, the two men were relieved to find the office staff safely together in a corner where two walls had formed a rough shelter.
Brother Hughes and his companion then made their way to where the spare parts room had been. They found four or five of the men there already out from under the rubble. The group used their bare hands to pull twisted steel and concrete blocks off the debris that had sheltered the rest of their coworkers. Then the men pulled the front office staff out of the wreckage at the other end of the building. During the destruction, only one person had suffered any lasting damage—a back injury.
When an emergency rescue team arrived, they found the Laidlaw workers using one of the company’s large industrial garbage containers for protection from the baseball size hail that fell following the tornado.
The tornado caused more destruction than had ever been seen before in Edmonton. It did more than a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of damage. Twenty-seven people throughout the city were killed.
Standing on a hill overlooking the destroyed Laidlaw buildings, Don Hughes reflected on what might have happened. “It’s a miracle that none of our workers were killed. Only the areas where we went for safety survived to provide any kind of protection. When I look at the total devastation, it’s almost as if the Lord put out his hands and made a protective shelter for us.”

“Would you accept Moses as a prophet of God if he lived today?” I asked.
“Why, yes,” answered my friend, “without any doubt!”
“What if he wore modern clothing and drove a car? What if he were a husband, a father, and a devoted citizen of the country in which he lived?”
“Moses would never have been like other men,” my friend replied. “He was Moses, the prophet—the man who communed with God!”
It did not occur to my friend that Moses had been much like the other men of his time. For my friend, it was inconceivable that a man who lived in modern times could be a mouthpiece for God—and could act and speak in his name.

Sometimes the wind is playful;
It blows away my hat
And makes me chase it down the street
Before I get it back.

I had practiced hard—I could hit, I could run—
But at my turn to bat, all my courage was gone.
Then I searched the crowd and found Father’s face;
He nodded, You can do it! And I made first base.

Elder Carlos E. Asay, an emeritus member of the Seventy, shares an experience he had as a missionary with this gift. He and his companion visited a branch torn by divisions. His companion was asked to speak at the meeting held to deal with the conflicts. After fasting and prayer, his companion “stood with confidence and worked the miracle. He spoke with the tongue of an angel. That young, inexperienced elder’s words healed wounds festering in the hearts of men much older than he, prompted confessions, and literally saved a branch of the Church” (Ensign, April 1988, 17).

“But I didn’t join right off,” Jack said. “I kind of sat back and doubted for a while, but I wish I hadn’t.” His Las Vegas excursion helped him appreciate the truths they were teaching him. “I looked around at the people there and thought ‘Lots of these people have money, but they’re still looking for something to make them happy,’” Jack said. Maybe he really could find what he was looking for in the Church.

He’d previously been attending Sunday School with a lackadaisical attitude, but now he decided to take the gospel seriously and learn some more. He began the missionary lessons and discovered that it would take the gospel to make him happy—happier than banking billions from bubble gum ever could. “Once the missionaries started teaching me, it only took about a month and a half before I was baptized,” he said.

Although my remarks have been directed to the youth of the Church, for parents and grandparents, I offer the following:
Recently, Elder David A. Bednar described a simple way to conduct a family assessment to mark progress on the covenant path by essential ordinances. All that is needed is a piece of paper with two columns: “name” and “plan for next or needful ordinance.” I did this recently, listing each family member. Among them, I noted an infant grandson, soon to be blessed; a six-year-old grandson, whose preparation for baptism was essential; and a son turning 18, whose preparation for the priesthood and temple endowment was imminent. Everyone on the list needed the sacrament ordinance. This simple exercise assisted Lesa and me in fulfilling our role to help each member of our family along the covenant path, with an action plan for each of them. Perhaps this is an idea for you which will lead to family discussions, family home evening lessons, preparation, and even invitations for essential ordinances in your family.12

Nathan Taylor and Tyler Juergens of the Wheatstone Ward in Houston, Texas, celebrated the life of the Prophet and managed to win first place in their school’s history fair as well. Their project, “The Martyrdom that Influenced the World: Joseph Smith,” was a learning experience for them.
“People asked us questions, and we are happy that we could answer them. … This project was a great missionary experience for us both and taught us that there are so many opportunities to share the gospel.”

The Knight family had become acquainted with Joseph Smith four years earlier in the fall of 1826. Joseph Knight, Sr., often hired seasonal workers on his farm, and his friend Josiah Stowell recommended to him a tall, young man named Joseph Smith as a good worker. Joseph was hired. He worked on the Knight farm and lived with the Knight family, and he developed a strong bond of trust and friendship with them. He roomed with Joseph Knight, Jr., who was close to his age, and he talked at length with the senior Mr. Knight. Newel Knight was married, but lived nearby and frequently worked and visited at his father’s farm. Over the harvest season and winter Joseph Smith shared confidences with the Knights. He told them of the visions he had seen and of the gold plates he was to receive in the coming months.
While at first a bit unsure about the amazing things he heard from Joseph Smith, Newel Knight became convinced of the truth of them and a very loyal friend as well. He wrote in his journal, “It is evident great things are about to transpire, that the Lord is about to do a marvelous work and wonder—that Joseph is to become an instrument in his hands to bring about this great and mighty work in the last days.”

Coming out of the Los Angeles California Temple one day, I was dismayed to notice that some bridesmaids were wearing immodest dresses. I then saw that the bridesmaids in another group were wearing dresses that were modest yet very pretty. I asked where they had found such lovely dresses, and they enthusiastically chorused, “Online.” The Internet can be a good source of modest clothing.
Anne Elwell, California, USA

On another occasion a phone call came when I was a bishop—this time from the police. I was told that a drunk driver had crashed his car through the glass into the lobby of a bank. When the bewildered driver saw the security guard with his weapon brandished, he cried, “Don’t shoot! I’m a Mormon!”

The inebriated driver was discovered to be a member of my ward, baptized only recently. As I waited to speak to him in the bishop’s office, I planned what I would say to make him feel remorseful for the way he had broken his covenants and embarrassed the Church. But as I sat looking at him, I heard a voice in my mind say, just as clearly as if someone were speaking to me, “I’m going to let you see him as I see him.” And then, for a brief moment, his whole appearance changed to me. I saw not a dazed young man but a bright, noble son of God. I suddenly felt the Lord’s love for him. That vision changed our conversation. It also changed me.

Shifting and squirming in his chair, Frankie whispered to Clarissa, “These chairs are hard. I’m bored.”
Sister Peterson, the Primary teacher, asked, “What did you say, Frankie?”
“Oh, nothing,” Frankie answered. He continued squirming.
Sister Peterson smiled. “It’s almost time to go home.”
“Home,” Frankie thought. He had been in so many homes he had to stop to remember which one he was in now.
After the closing prayer, Frankie sprang from his chair and raced into the hallway. As he skidded around the corner, he ran right into Mr. Adams—or “Dad,” as he was trying to remember to call him.
“Hi, Frankie, I was looking for you. Let’s go home.”
There was that word again—home. Frankie climbed onto the back seat of the van. Most of the foster families he had lived with drove vans. If he sat in the back, everyone usually forgot he was there. Then no one asked him questions. Questions made him nervous because he didn’t always know the answers. Then he felt—well, slow. The kids in the other places he had lived had made fun of him and called him names. Even the adults usually got annoyed when he didn’t understand everything right away. So Frankie chose the back row. It was safer that way. The problem was, it wasn’t working with this family.
“How was Primary, Frankie?” Mrs. Adams asked.
Frankie thought hard. He wanted to be honest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I tried to listen, but it was really hard.” He felt his whole body tense up. He was afraid that Mrs. Adams was going to be upset with him for not understanding. What she said surprised him. “What did the teachers say? Maybe we can help you understand.” She sounded very gentle, like she really wanted to help.
She listened patiently as Frankie tried to tell her what he heard in Primary. “Well, it was about God being my father, or something like that,” Frankie mumbled. The idea sounded strange to him. He thought for sure it would sound silly to Mrs. Adams. (“Mom,” he silently reminded himself.) He figured the other kids would tease him for giving the wrong answer, but they didn’t.
“That’s what Sister Robbins said in sharing time,” Taylor said. “She talked about how we’re all children of God, and about how He loves us—just like you do, Dad—and how that should help us to be good and to choose the right. Then we sang ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
Ashley waved her hands in the air and said, “That’s my favorite song!”
Frankie listened closely. They had heard the same thing he did, but they seemed to understand it. And he could tell by their faces that they believed it. Mom must have seen the confusion in his eyes because she said, “Frankie, we’ll talk more later about what it means to be a child of God.”
After dinner, the kids all plopped down on the big rug in front of the couch. Reaching for his scriptures, Dad said, “Let’s talk about what it means to be a child of God. Here is a scripture that might help. It’s in 1 Nephi 17:36, and it says, ‘Behold, the Lord hath created the earth that it should be inhabited; and he hath created his children that they should possess it.’” Dad paused. “What do you think that means?”
Ashley’s hand flew up. “It means that Heavenly Father is the Father of our spirits. He made this beautiful earth for us and sent us here to grow.” She nodded her head, as if agreeing with herself.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to come back to Him, because we belong to Him.”
“Even me?” Frankie asked timidly. “Do I belong to Him?”
“Absolutely, Frankie. He loves you and wants you to come back,” Dad said. “He wants you to come back so much that He will help you in any way He can. One way He has already helped you was by sending you to us, so we can teach you about Him. If you will pray and ask Him, He will bless you and help you.”
Later that night as Frankie snuggled under the covers, he thought, “I have a Father in Heaven.” In all the foster homes he had been in, no one had ever told him about Heavenly Father. It felt good to know that there was someone in heaven he belonged to, someone he could always talk to. He had never felt like he belonged anywhere—until now. In his heart Frankie knew that Mr. and Mrs. Adams—Mom and Dad—loved him.
“Maybe that is why I am in this home,” he thought. “Maybe God wanted me here.” For the first time Frankie slid to his knees and started to pray. It felt funny at first, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. “If He is my Father, I bet He would like to hear from me. I bet He’s missed me,” he thought as he bowed his head.

Other goals have eternal significance. Their completion produces joy in this life and the promise of eternal joy in the world to come. A few weeks ago Elder Rex D. Pinegar and I saw an example of this as we visited the beautifully renovated temple in Cardston, Alberta. In the brides’ room stood a lovely young woman in her wedding dress. She was there because she had made righteous choices. The look in her eyes and the expression on her face were a perfect embodiment of joy.

Sean Armstrong from Walla Walla, Washington, said, “I’ve met mostly the Japanese. I studied Japanese before coming up here so that we could talk to them a little bit. I really like them. Everybody’s making a big deal about how countries can’t get along together, but the Boy Scouts from all over the world get along great. They stuck a British troop and an Argentine troop next to each other. One night we had a big rain up here, and the Argentine troop got flooded out. The British took them into their camp, fed them, and helped them get dried out.”

“Okay, class. You have two weeks to complete this assignment. Remember that it is a research essay. You must present detailed observations and a conclusion, not just an opinion.”
Miss Lambert’s instructions were clear enough, but my brain was rejecting them. Another assignment! Don’t teachers ever coordinate assignments, or is it just part of a giant plan to keep students so overworked that they don’t have the strength to fool around in class?
I took the typewritten sheet from Wendy Baker as she passed them out to the class. She was positively glowing with enthusiasm. Why do some people thrive on schoolwork?
“It’s a tough one, Matt.” She smiled brightly. “We can work in groups if we want.”
I attempted a smile, then pretended to get engrossed in the essay question: “Racial Harmony. Is it possible in our community, and what are some ways we can achieve it?”
I glanced around the class to see if the reactions of others were the same as mine. With the exception of Wendy, they looked pretty similar—heads down, tired and disgruntled expressions, a few hands being run through already ruffled hair as if the movement could generate some extra brain power.
My sociology class in New Zealand is quite diverse, a mixture of European, Maori, Polynesian, South African, and Asian. We share a few classes, but most people stick with their own group at lunch time and after school. No disharmony but no great harmony either.
“What’s the frown for, Matt?” Miss Lambert stood beside my desk. “Do you have some questions about the assignment?”
“Uh, no … not really.” I always felt a bit flustered around Miss Lambert. “I was just looking around the class, and I figure we all get on pretty well.”
She tapped at her chin with the tip of her pen; then she smiled with a sort of faraway look. “Okay, Matt. That answer’s fine for now, but I want you to be able to tell me how different you feel when you’ve finished making your observations. How much better do you think it could be?”
I guess I was wrong to expect Mum’s sympathy with my lack of enthusiasm for the assignment. I read it out to her after she’d watched me inhale a reasonable quantity of cake and milk after school.
“What’s the problem?” She rescued the last bit of cake for my sisters. “You’ve got plenty of places to gather information right around you.”
I must have stared blankly because she took a deep breath and started speaking more slowly and carefully, like when I had a project to do in primary school.
“Think about it, Matthew.” I know she’s being serious when she says my whole name. “You have to find examples of racial harmony. I’m just suggesting you look closer to home first.”
Then came the classic closing statement. “You know I’m happy to help you, Matthew, but you have to make an effort. Now I have to go and do some shopping. Don’t eat all the cake.”
I did make an effort. I looked at some newspapers and some magazines and found some pretty negative articles about the crime rate and unemployment being higher in some racial groups in New Zealand, and some other articles about the country being inundated with immigrants. The one thing I did notice as I searched was that there really wasn’t anything particularly positive written about racial harmony. Did that mean it didn’t exist, or wasn’t it worth writing about?
I decided to think about it later. I mean, I had two weeks.
Mum did her shopping all right. After dinner she presented me with a small red book with “4 Nephi 1:15–17” written in large print on the front.
“I thought you could use this as your research notebook. The scripture might be helpful as well.”
Good old Mum. Trying to be helpful without helping. I gave her a hug, tucked the notebook into my back pocket, and went to check out some new CDs.
The notebook fell on the floor as I got ready for bed. I guess my conscience got the better of me, because when I picked it up, I felt I should look up the scripture.
“And it came to pass that there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people.”
No contention. No disharmony. That sounded fair enough; then, as I kept reading, the last part of verse 17 really stood out.
“… neither were there Lamanites, nor any manner of -ites; but they were in one, the children of Christ, and heirs to the kingdom of God.”
Nor any manner of -ites. No -ites among us? Did that mean there were no different cultural groups or that they “were in one, the children of Christ.” In one? As in unity?
I was actually sitting back on my bed pondering the scripture when Mum tapped on the door.
“Any inspiration yet?” She gave my scriptures a quick glance.
“I’m not sure, maybe.”
“Don’t forget to look close to home or church.” She smiled and blew me a kiss goodnight.
Next morning when I arrived early at seminary, my teacher, Sister Fisher, was already there with some of the Korean students. I hadn’t really noticed before that they were always there early. Today I watched quietly and found that Sister Fisher was teaching them the main words and ideas from the lesson in English so they could understand better during class.
Later on in class, I noticed other things for the first time. Out of 20 students we had nine different nationalities—French, Maori, Filipino, Korean, South African, Chinese, Niuean, Tongan, and Samoan.
I watched a girl from South Africa helping a Korean boy read aloud. A Filipino boy was helping a Chinese boy three years younger with scripture mastery, and a Maori girl was helping a Niuean boy. Everyone was helping everyone else to learn about Jesus Christ, and “there was no contention in the land.”
When I got home I wrote a few observations about seminary into the notebook. As I stopped to think for a bit, I noticed Mum had put a photo on my dresser. It’s one of her favorites of my older brother on his mission in Australia. He is with two little Aboriginal children and their mum, whom he was teaching the gospel to.
I made more notes as the week went on.
—The visit of the stake Young Men presidency—three men from three different cultures encouraging us all to serve missions.
—The regional basketball team—12 players from five cultures, all united in a team effort to win the championship.
—Our stake service project—youth from 10 cultures helping clear roadside rubbish.
—A ward fireside with 38 people and 14 cultures, listening to advice from the scriptures on how to build stronger families.
And at every activity, there was no contention. We were just Latter-day Saints worshipping and working together. I couldn’t see any -ites at all.
“How’s the assignment going?” Mum asked one morning. Mum and I do most of our talking in the kitchen on either side of the breakfast bar. I juggled a handful of cookies and pulled the red notebook out of my jeans pocket. It was looking pretty ragged, and I could tell Mum was impressed when I flipped through my pages of notes.
“Plenty examples of racial harmony—no contention and ‘no -ites among us.’” I started to say it in an almost glib, gloating way until my throat suddenly tightened, and I got the most amazing feeling in my chest and behind my eyes all at once. I couldn’t even look at Mum. I just kept staring at my little red book until the scripture on the front blurred.
“Do you think you understand your assignment now?” Mum asked quietly.
When I handed my assignment to Miss Lambert, she looked briefly at the number of pages and raised one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.
“You’ve been working hard, Matt.” It was a statement rather than a question. “Do you think you’ve learned something from it all?”
“Plenty, Miss Lambert,” I grinned. “It wasn’t as boring as I thought it would be.”
“And did you decide how we could make things better?”
“Uh, yeah.” I felt a bit awkward. “I think it’s got a lot to do with having a common goal.”
The eyebrow went up again.
“I mean, if we’re working together and helping each other reach the same goal—well, there’s less room for contention, and people are more unified.” I felt myself trailing off, but Miss Lambert smiled and nodded.
“You’ve done well, Matt. You’ve seen that you can make a difference.”
As she turned away to gather up the other assignments, I found myself silently reciting the scripture that I had memorized in the last two weeks.
“Neither were there … any manner of -ites; but they were in one, the children of Christ.”
“Did you get the assignment done okay, Matt?” Wendy bubbled up beside me. “Wasn’t it awesome?”
I couldn’t believe my answer as I smiled back. “Yeah, Wendy, it was awesome.”
And I meant it.

Kigatsuku means “an inner spirit to act without being told what to do.” First, we can do great good when we act as an organized group. One hundred and fifty years of Relief Society speaks for itself. One stake in Denver, Colorado, is making quilts—dozens of thick, warm, comforting quilts—which they will donate to the homeless and those in need. Second, we can do great good when we act in small, informal groups. The Relief Society general board volunteered to clean a littered highway, pulled on their gloves, and discovered that it doesn’t take a long time to make a big difference. And third, we can do great good on our own—just as individuals who care enough to serve. Think of Sister Julia Mavimbela in South Africa, teaching children who had never had a real home to tend the earth by planting gardens. It is the desire in individual hearts that powers not only small, individual acts of service, but also the great acts that become mass movements and even revolutions. You have that power, too.

I was nervous, but I remembered a story about President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) when he received a mission call to England. He was preparing to leave in the midst of economic pressures and concerns that troubled him. Just before he left, his father handed him a card with five written words: “Be not afraid, only believe” (Mark 5:36). I also remembered the words of my bishop: “Have faith. God will provide.” These words gave me courage and strength to move forward.

About four months into my mission, I began to experience pain—not only during physical activities like riding my bike or morning exercise but also when I was sleeping or doing personal study. I began rapidly losing weight. Even drinking water made me sick. Doctors’ tests could not determine what was wrong. I had no parasites or viruses. My mission president, my missionary companion, and I were all confused by my deteriorating health.

During the month that followed, I maintained faith that surprised even me. Although I felt frustrated, I was convinced that if I kept working harder, biking faster, and speaking my broken Chinese to everyone I saw, that God would miraculously heal me. I believed the stories of Christ’s healing the sick and raising the dead, and I believed wholeheartedly that He would do the same for me—a weak but enthusiastic missionary. Then one Sunday while my companion and I were biking to the Church meetinghouse to meet an investigator, the pain and convulsions throughout my body became unbearable. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, I asked the elders to give me a blessing, which helped. As the days passed, priesthood blessings became more frequent and so did prayers for healing.

It was the darkest day of my mission when I awoke one morning in the fiery Taiwanese heat and realized that I could not even move my body enough to get out of bed. At that moment I knew that I would not be able to be a missionary for much longer. My mission president came to visit me, and we counseled together. We talked of all the possibilities, and after much prayer and many tears, the Spirit confirmed that I needed to return home and focus on getting well.

“Owen, please be good for your babysitter, Marissa, tonight,” Mom said as she put on her coat. “Dad and I won’t be back from our date until after you are asleep, so we will see you in the morning.”
Mom and Dad gave Owen a big hug and left.
Marissa and Owen had fun playing board games and racing Owen’s favorite toy cars. After dinner, Marissa asked, “What game would you like to play before bedtime, Owen?”
“Let’s play hide-and-seek! Ready, set, go!” Owen shouted as he ran to his favorite hiding spot.
“Ready or not, here I come,” Marissa called.
She searched in many different hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, behind the couch. Then the curtains moved, and she saw ten little toes peeking out from under them. “I found you!” she said with a smile as she opened the curtain.
“Let’s play again!” Owen said.
“We can’t play again, Owen. It’s time for bed now. Brush your teeth and put on your pajamas, please.”
“Not yet! I don’t want to go to bed,” Owen said.
“I know, but big boys like you need sleep.”
Owen ran into the living room and picked up one of his cars.
“Come on, Owen,” Marissa said. “It’s time to get ready for bed.”
Owen stomped his foot and started crying. He kept crying as he brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas. After Marissa had read a bedtime story and Owen prayed, he noticed that Marissa looked sad.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.
“You didn’t listen to me when I told you it was bedtime,” Marissa said.
Marissa turned out the light and closed the door to Owen’s bedroom. As he lay in bed, he began to feel sad about not listening to Marissa. He said a prayer again, asking Heavenly Father what he should do. He felt the Holy Ghost tell him to say he was sorry.
Owen went to Marissa. “Marissa, I’m sorry for not obeying you and for making you sad.”
“Thank you for saying sorry,” Marissa said. Then she gave him a big hug and tucked him back into bed.

In the Temple. Sister Sachiko Miyagawa of Japan, attending the Japan MTC: “Attending the temple while at the MTC is an experience I will never forget. In the temple I felt a desire to be more obedient and come closer to God.”